


Assortment

by deliciousshame



Series: asscreedkinkmeme [10]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Community: asscreedkinkmeme, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Parent/Child Incest, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousshame/pseuds/deliciousshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the fills I wrote for the kink meme I hadn't posted here yet, or: how I decided to stop discriminating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles/Haytham, hurt/comfort after Connor's death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=8737539#cmt8737539): Haytham wins the fight at the end of sequence 11 instead of Connor. And while he believes he did what he had to do, he still somewhat grieves for his son. Charles comforts him.

Haytham wakes up almost brutally and sits up, sweat stinging his eyes, Connor’s last words still ringing in his ears like he’s here, mortally wounded but alive for a few more minutes in Haytham’s arms as Fort George crumbles around them. He died cursing Haytham, calling him traitor, murderer and father, and maybe that last one hurt the most. 

He’d never thought that his son’s death would hurt him so. He should have been but one more assassin killed by his blade, one less obstacle in the templars’ way. And yet, he ends up awake at ungodly hours most nights, his sleep plagued by the memories of Connor’s corpse, of that last fight between them, or by Ziio, her beautiful face marred by tears and rage as she screams her hatred for him, who slaughtered their only child.

“Does his death haunt you still?” Charles warps his arm around his shoulders and guides him to rest against his chest. The embrace is comforting, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Haytham woke him up, and he didn’t even notice, too tangled up in his own problems. 

Haytham sighs. “I suppose it must.” Haytham never talked to Charles about Connor, sparing him only a few words to share his fate, and he never talked about Ziio to anyone, but Charles knew anyway. 

“Don’t let him disturb your dreams. You gave him a choice. You did so multiple times, more than you should have, and he rejected you. This was unavoidable. Do not blame yourself for his fate.”

“If only leaving troubles behind was this easy. He was only a child, I should have been able to change his mind, to make him see the truth like I did. It shouldn’t have turned out like this.”

Charles’ arms tighten around him. “As much as it pains me to admit it, Haytham, you’re but a man, and the assassin inherited your stubbornness. I… I should have been there. If only you hadn’t taken my place, I would have taken care of him. You shouldn’t have to shoulder his death.”

Haytham snorts. How like Charles to take the blame for him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charles. He was young and inexperienced, but in combat he’d have beaten you.” He doesn’t have to see his face to know that Charles is frowning, stung at the attack on his fighting prowess. “To be frank, there were moments where he almost had me. My blood might have been the one to stain the soil.”

He feels Charles tense behind him. He hit a nerve. “Please don’t joke about this. Your death would have destroyed me. I would have hunted him to the ends of the Earth to avenge you. Either way, he would have been dead, so please forget him.” Gentle kisses on his nape, hands rubbing his wrists. 

It’s probably his turn to soothe Charles. “Is that so? How lucky for me that it didn’t happen. I’m alive and here. Our plans are in motion. We’ll win, Charles. We’re winning already. Our goal is within reach.”

Charles’ lips form a smile against the back of his neck. “When did you doubt it? With you leading us, Master Kenway, our victory was inevitable.”

In private, Charles only calls him Master Kenway when he wants to tease. “Oh, really. How nice to know of your unshakable trust in me. Maybe you deserve a reward for it.” Haytham shakes Charles’ embrace, turns and meets his lips. Connor be damned. Haytham has this. It’s worth it.


	2. Connor finds Haytham's private correspondence (Charles/Haytham)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9152259#cmt9152259): After Haytham's death, I imagine Connor might clear out his old quarters at Fort George. Turns out daddy had fairly, well, explicit correspondence with someone in the Order (maybe Reginald Birch? Charles Lee? Your choice, anon) and Connor ends up turned on despite himself.

At first, Connor thinks he is mistaken. His father had obviously enjoyed the company of women. Surely this is a forgery or a hallucination. But the letter is still here, very real. It’s signed by one Haytham Kenway, lost between the other papers found in his office. It is dated of only a few days ago; Haytham didn’t have the time to have it delivered yet, and now he never would. Connor has only read the first sentences, but the words are burned in his memory.

________

My dear Charles,

I hope you have forgiven me by now. The Order needs you. We can’t afford to have you in danger. I shall take care of the trifling matter that is the assassin and be back by your side. You will barely notice my absence and, more importantly, you will be safe.

Do not worry. I intend to make it up to you. I have missed your touch surely as much as you did mine.

________

Connor should stop here. He knows he should. But he can’t. He has to know. 

________

I shall go to your side as soon as I can. I miss your mouth, which can do so much more than shape clever words. The first thing I will do will be to kiss those lips, to stop your protests and hopefully replace them with moans of pleasure. Oh, you will surely fight me, thinking this kind of behavior unbecoming so soon after my return, but you will cede to my will, the way you always do. 

________

He can almost see the scene happening in front of him. His father approaching Charles Lee, touching him, pushing until he has his way. He would never have guessed that this was the relationship they shared. Outside of his tribe, men seemed uncomfortable with such things. Something unlikely for his father and him to share. Connor has stopped himself from such fantasies to better blend with his allies, but now that they are plain to see, how could he avert his eyes ? 

________

You will still be in your office. You will be worried about the soldiers guarding the place. I will not care, even as I remove your clothes and pushes you against your desk, sending all those important papers flying. For all your complaints, you will be hard and leaking the moment I put my hand on you. 

________

Connor can’t help but notice that he is sitting at the desk, reading this correspondence probably where it was written. He supposes Lee’s office is similar to the one he is in right now. Was Haytham thinking of his lover here ? Was this letter discarded halfway through, Haytham having more pressing matters to take care of ?

Those aren’t healthy thoughts, but they’re the ones plaguing his mind. He feels himself losing control with each sentence, his mind clearly showing him pictures that should repulse him but cause a completely different reaction. 

________

This is where all resistance would flee. You will stop struggling and start begging. I will not be cruel to you. I will give you everything you ask for and more. You will push the oil you keep in your desk for such uses, despite denying it until your dying breath, in my hand, a wordless plea that could not be clearer. 

________

Connor couldn’t say when his hand slid inside of his pants. He has been aware of his growing erection, but he had been trying to disregard it. He has obviously failed. 

His hand feels better than it should, his grip being too dry. Even so, he knows he won’t last. He still feels the rush from the fight, and it has been far too long. 

________

 

I will obey you, pushing one finger after another until you’re ready and clawing at my arms in your need to be filled. When I finally enter you, bending you over your desk, you will instinctively meet my every trust, until you get frustrated with the slow rhythm I force on you. 

________

His hand works faster. He wants to be taken that way, to lose all control and yet keep it. 

________

You will push me on the chair and start riding me, using me ruthlessly to find your own pleasure. When you start making those high-pitched sounds, I will stroke you until you come all over my hand and I will join you a few seconds later. 

_______

His orgasm floods him as the pair in his mind reach completion. He waits for his senses to come back to him, wipes himself as best as he can, and then finishes the letter.

_______

You will slump against me, exhausted. Only then you will admit to having missed me. I will treasure those words just as dearly as the moments before.

Those are the thoughts filling my head as I wait for our enemy to arrive. As you can see, they are all about you. If I could have been with you, I would have, but this is the way it should be. We shall be together soon, our goals having been furthered. Don’t worry, the world shall be ours. 

May the Father of Understanding guide us.

Yours, Haytham Kenway

_____

His father was a liar until the end, it seems. Connor shall bring this letter to his father’s funeral, where he knows he will find Lee. Reading it, maybe Lee will feel a fraction of the pain he has caused to Connor.


	3. Washington/Connor, Washington uses the Apple for Connor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=10330115#cmt10330115): By day, he's a strong willed commander who is admired and respected, at night, he's simply man suffering from heartbreak.
> 
> He has fallen Connor, but after what he done to his village...and his mother, he knew he didn't have a chance. If only he could take it back...and that opportunity comes in a form of a glowing sphere. It promises him power a chance to undo his mistakes, and become a great leader. Washington is hesitant at first until the power of the apple seduce him into saying yes.
> 
> At first he does what sets out to do. Washington used the apple to bring back Connor's village, and loved ones. Also becoming a powerful leader who beat his enemies back, claiming his countries freedom. His intentions were all for good...but we know how it ends. Washington goes mad, and all his previous intentions are lost. He even forgets the person he loves, but the name 'Connor' continues to haunt him.

Connor leaves. That he didn’t attack them both probably should be counted as a victory. Haytham Kenway disappears in the following confusion. He won that round and he knows it. No matter how much he wished for Connor not to find out what he planned, he knew it was only a question of time before he discovered the truth, before he turned on them like George did on him. 

He didn’t have a choice. They had to act. George can’t let his personal feelings get in the way of the country’s independence. If by doing so he has barred himself from having Connor as what he wanted, as anything more than a casual ally, so be it. His fantasies were never likely to happen. They’ll stay as something to keep him warm at night. 

_______________

He doesn’t know what it is. That shining, golden orb is unlike anything he’s ever seen. He’s instantly fascinated with it, thoughts of discovering its secrets smoldering him. Leaving it here, lying with the mundane things of a dead man, would be a waste. He takes it.

_______________

The first vision leaves him slightly disturbed, but nothing more. There is no one who wouldn’t change something from their past. Seeing Connor’s village thriving, and Connor himself grateful in more ways than one for it, is a wonderful dream, but it is only that; a dream. 

They continue to haunt him. He sees himself, an uncontested ruler, leading the country toward prosperity without any opposition. He’s not blind to the inherent unfairness of such a system: he fought for the right of the people to choose their own leaders. And yet, the citizens of this country aren’t oppressed. They’re content. His rule is efficient, not encumbered by others’ will. His country thrives, and so do his people.

It won’t leave his mind.

_______________

He can’t find anything about the Apple that it didn’t show to him itself, but he has to know more. The weight of the possibilities has become too heavy for him to bear. The visions of that perfect world are too tantalizing. They won’t let him rest, always at the back of his mind. He’ll go crazy if he doesn’t at least try to harness its power and make his dreams come true. 

The Apple is there, glimmering on his desk. It’s time.

_______________

Why didn’t he fall sooner? All this time wasted. Reality is as wonderful as the phantasms the Apple taunted him with. How easier ruling the nation is when rivals can be swatted aside with a thought and a gesture. 

Here, the natives collaborate. They, too, flourish. If only he could find Connor. Whenever he can look for him, which isn’t that often, as even with the Apple his position lets him no time for leisure, he doesn’t seem to be around, always on an errand or another. 

He thinks Connor’s mother doesn’t like him. He wonders why. 

_______________

His kingdom shall stay his. He made it, started it from nothing to lead him to what it is today. No one will separate him from what is his, whether that be his country or his Apple. 

Let his enemies be removed. Let the town burn. Let the woman die. 

He doesn’t even know why he cared once. He doesn’t now. All that matters is his country. A king has to do everything in his power for his people, and his power is limitless. 

_______________

That the woman survived the first attack against her is surprising, but she still falls like countless before her did under the Apple’s, his, might. 

There is something familiar about her son, prostrated over her dead body, something that resides at the edge of his mind, but he can’t afford to be distracted during battle. The man is obstinate, but he too falls, and he pushes him out of his mind. It’s strangely difficult.

_______________

It seems Fate tied the man and him together. Not only did he survive, but he’s within his grasp once more, offered as a present by those most loyal to him. 

He’s pleasing to look at, and for a few moments he toys with the idea of keeping him, but dismisses it. Weaknesses aren’t allowed.

He’ll be executed tomorrow.

_______________

The next time he meet the man, he has lost all his charm. He’s actively trying to oppose his king. He’ll regret it. 

_______________

The man must be exceptional. Not only does he appears before him once more, still unharmed, but his first words are a plea for peace. Of course, giving him the Apple is a ridiculous notion unworthy of consideration, but he still offered. 

He insists the Apple corrupted him. That something that can control others could control him never even occurred to him. It shakes something inside of him. The possibility should have been considered. That it didn’t is strange. 

The man must sense the weakness in his armor. He pushes on, calls on him to remember exactly how he got the Apple, who he was before he got it. He speaks of times when he was a commander, when he worked with the people instead of ruling them. 

He wants to dismiss all as trickery, fantasies created to separate him from his possession, but it doesn’t feel wrong. He almost feels the pressure in his mind, memories long ignored wanting to make themselves known. 

The man asks if he remembers him at all. He can’t say he really does. 

The man says: “My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton, but you knew me as Connor.” 

Connor. 

The gates blocking the flow of his memories open when he hears the name, flooding him with images of friends, family and foes alike, but above them all stands Connor. How he could he forget him, the one he wanted, the one he chose to do all of this for?

His sense of self back in place, all words fail him. How does one apologise for becoming a tyrant and killing their most beloved’s, albeit in secret, mother? One can’t.

Connor witnessed the change come over him. When Washington hands him the Apple, he takes it without a word.

The world dissolves.

_______________

All but a dream. 

Connor takes the Apple somewhere only known to him. Washington doesn’t object. It is for the best. Connor won’t fall prey to the Apple’s temptation. His gaze stays steady as Connor departs. For a foolish second, he entertains the idea of telling Connor he did it all for him. 

It might be the last time he sees Connor. He doesn’t want it to be marred with his disgust or, worse, his culpability. He lets him go.


	4. Washington/Connor, modern hooker AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11293294#cmt11293294): Connor works as street hooker to provide his poor family. He meets Haytham (who don't know what Connor is his son) or Washington, or someone else...

The sound of tires stopping abruptly startles Connor out of his reveries. He shouldn’t nod off on the street. It can be dangerous out there, but waiting for a fish is boring. Connor should know better by now; he’s been doing this for a while.

The car’s door opens; the man who walks out is completely out of place in the seedy neighborhood. Too richly clothed, too well-groomed, coming out from the kind of car nobody here is stupid enough to drive because it’d be stolen the moment you’d leave it, and so obviously uneasy with what he’s doing that Connor almost feels pity for him. Connor’s betting the client is either closeted or leads the sort of life where attraction to men isn’t acceptable. Connor’s going to make it easy for him. He walks out to the man and starts talking about price, but he’s cut off quickly: “Whatever you charge, I can afford it. Please just get into the car.” That’s very strange, and would normally raise alarms, but the man just seems so uncomfortable that it makes him look harmless, and Connor does need the cash. Plus, he can take care of himself. 

Connor follows the man inside of the car. The drive is awkward. The man can’t seem to make himself forget Connor’s here, like others usually do, but he doesn’t try to talk to him either. All he does is steal glances at him, like he can’t quite believe Connor’s here. 

Connor starts reconsidering his choices when they stop in front of the kind of expensive, high-class hotel his usual clients could never afford. The man’s behavior changes the moment he steps out of the car. All nervousness is instantly replaced by confidence. H walks out and into the place like he owns it, which he could for all Connor knows. He thinks about bolting, this is just too out of his comfort zone, but doesn’t. He just follows him through the lavish lobby, corridors and elevators until they enter a ridiculously luxurious room, even for this particular hotel. If his client can pay for this place, he can afford whatever he wants from him for the night. 

What he wants is to push Connor down the bed and get rid of both their clothes as fast as possible. Not a talker then. That works for Connor. The eagerness and the way the man’s fingers immediately find their way inside of him confirm Connor’s first impression; not out, doesn’t let himself have what he want, waits until he needs it to take care of his needs. 

There’s no lube. It’s rough. This will hurt, but he had worse. He deals pretty well until the man tries to push another finger inside. He can’t stop the groan of pain from escaping at the pressure inside of him. The man freezes and pushes his fingers out in a hurry, leaving him too raw, too exposed, and explodes in apologies. He says he forgot to use lube. If he wasn’t paid for this and this was someone else, Connor would roll his eyes and tell him not to bother lying to him, but the man’s unexpected earnestness and strangely honest looking sorrow at the idea of having hurt him let Connor stays impassible. His client does take out a tube of lubricant from the drawer, cover his fingers and slide them back inside of him, but not before taking Connor in his mouth. He cries out. He was still soft, but between the fingers stroking him much more gently, as if to soothe the ache from before, and the heat surrounding him, he feels himself grows harder by the minute. Connor almost tells the man he should have at least insisted on a condom, because he will, but if he wants to risk it, it’s his choice. He doesn’t even need to fake the moans like he normally does. The man isn’t very skilled, as those in the closet often are, but it’s still pretty good. 

Everything stops. His client decided it’s time for more. He does put on a condom without being told, so there’s a fight avoided. Some clients are pushy about that, but Connor won’t get whatever illnesses they might have. 

Connor is put on all fours, which is fine by him. The man pushes inside of him, hard, leaving him no time to adjust, and starts ramming into him. It’s more painful than pleasurable, but Connor rides each thrust, gives the man what he came for. As of now, he’s okay and he can pay, so Connor wouldn’t mind if he hired him again, but for that, he has to be satisfied. Moans and whimpers he hopes don’t sound too fake complete the experience. 

He might have missed the mark, because the man reaches around him to wrap a hand around his flaying erection. That helps. The moans aren’t fake anymore. They work for the man; he speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder and irregular until he stills and comes.

The man pulls out and collapses on the bed, but not before making sure Connor also comes by his hand. He gestures Connor towards the bathroom, so Connor goes. He’ll enjoy the luxury if he’s allowed. It’s rare enough. 

When he comes out, his client is agitated, talking on his cell with someone. Connor waits. When the conversation ends, the man tells him to leave. His confidence is gone; he’s back to being uncomfortable and awkward, and a blind man could see that the faster Connor leaves, the happier he’ll be. An indecent amount of cash is waved at him, but you won’t hear Connor complain. He put his clothes back on, takes the cash and leaves. Connor wouldn’t be averse to meeting the man again. Maybe it’ll happen.


	5. Haytham/Connor, sexual slavery, they don't know they're related

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11180142#cmt11180142): The Templars end up capturing a couple of those pesky Assassins, and Haytham is surprised to learn that their youngest (and most attractive) member is the leader of the Brotherhood. With/Without knowing that Connor is his son, Haytham offers him the chance to let the recruits live if he submits completely to him.

The man whose wrists were tied to the dungeon cell’s wall certainly wasn’t the surprise Haytham had expected, but he couldn’t say it was a bad one. When Charles had told him that the assassins that had somehow discovered their plans and set out to make each of them fail had finally been caught, he’d been more than pleased. Months of strategy, of tedious political manoeuvres and infiltrations, completely ruined by the appearance of one of those pesky assassins. But no longer.

He’d been hoping for Achilles. Charles had said they'd kept the leader for him. Remove the mentor from the equation and the Creed will crumble with him, as he shouldn’t have had time to train a worthy heir yet, but the native man in front of him isn’t Achilles. 

He understands now that there is another reason why Charles gave this one to him. He does have a taste for the people who live here, for their darker skin and their bodies shaped by their harsh way of living. The man in front of him is a particulary delighful specimen, if quite young, with a handsome figure and the chiseled musculature that defines a well-trained assassin.

He knows they caught two other assassins, one who turned out to be a woman and another young man, someone answering to the pseudonym of Clipper. These assassins have no secrets to find. The templars already know where their hideout is and how many they are. Killing them would be the most efficient way of dealing with the problem that they cause, but it certainly wouldn't be the most fun.

"You're lucky, assassin. I'm the one in charge of your fate. You might get a quick and painless death, unlike your... subordinates, is it? Thomas does like playing with our female prisoners, and Charles has a tendency to get overenthusiac when he leads an interrogation. He'd hate missing on important information because he hasn't been thorough enough."

"What do you want." He plays a good game, his expression is as stoic as it can be, but his voice trembles and his eyes have widened. Haytham suspects he’s well-trained, but he’s just too young. Nothing can replace experience.

"You can recognise a threat when you hear one. That augurs well. You might be aware that I'm the leader of the templars. Agree to my quite reasonable demands and I'll make sure your allies don't suffer more than they absolutely need to."

"What are those reasonable demands?"

"Only your complete and total surrender. Be mine, obey my orders without fuss, no matter what they are, and I'll do what I can for, I believe their names are Clipper and Deborah."

"You don't guaranty either their life or their safety."

"Indeed. You can take your chance at witnessing the state they'll be in the next time you see them. It's solely your choice. Just know I wouldn't take pleasure in infliging you pain."

A pause. "Do you need time to think about my proposition? I can give you an hour."

"Postponing this won't make it easier." The assassin breathes in deeply, probably trying to reach a simulacrum of calm. Haytham watches. "Fine. I'll do it. Warn the butchers you call your allies."

Haytham stays composed and slaps him across the face. "I don't think I was clear enough. I demanded your surrender. That means you'll always be docile. Don't you dare order me again, or you won't like the consequences, or rather, your comrades won’t. You'll also be polite towards my friends at all time. Have I been understood?"

"Yes sir."

"While the title does please me, you need not be that formal. Simple obediance will do. Now, I'll unlock your manacles. I can't help but stress the fact that you do not want to try to escape. I can and will take you down if I believe you're a risk."

The assassin bites back whatever he’d wanted to say and stays still as Haytham unlocks the shackles. He learns quickly. This will be enjoyable. "Good boy." He does flinches when Haytham caresses his face, but given enough time, he’ll know better.

He can’t continue referring to him as "the assassin". That will become bothersome really quickly. "What is your name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"That won’t work. What do your allies call you?"

"Connor."

Memories of a similar conversation start plaguing him, but he pushes them aside. He won’t sully Ziio’s memory by bringing her into this. He’s certain Connor looks nothing like her, only his origin and Haytham’s treacherous mind create similarities between Ziio’s graceful frame and Connor’s sculptured shape. 

"Just like your mentor’s deceased son? Is that hazard at work, or did he name you?"

"He named me."

"So you two are close enough that you allowed him this. Is he your lover? Hopefully not, naming you after his son if he beds you would be twisted." In truth, he had his response from the immediately horrified face Connor made at the suggestion. A more paternal figure in Connor’s life then. 

"Please excuse me, I digress. Now that I can call you something more adequate, let us proceed. Do you have any idea what I will ask of you? "

"I am not a complete idiot. You didn’t make your interest subtle."

"Good. Do come closer." Connor has been keeping as close to the wall as he can, and that simply won’t do. His reluctance can’t be ignored, but he does come, close enough that Haytham can touch to his heart’s desire. He reaches out slowly, making sure that Connor can see him. The flinch is visibly restrained this time. 

"I’ll make it easy on you. If you’re not too innocent, what you’ll need to do shall be evident. Kneel." He does. Haytham can’t deny that having the assassin at his whims is heady like few things are. 

Connor doesn’t stay idle. Haytham expects him to try to make it as fast as possible, and can’t say he’s surprised when he feels hands at his waist, making fast work of his pants. He’s been anticipating Connor’s touch since he first saw him. He was at half-mast before, but Connor’s lips on him, caressing as if he’s learning him, take him all the way to full hardness faster than he thought possible. The assassin doesn’t have much experience, but he does what he can to hide it behind bravado, and it works.

Wet, slick heat as Connor opens up and takes him as far as he can, which isn’t that far, but effort should be commended. "You’re doing very well. Go on, suck it." He’s sure that his new toy is blushing, but he does start sucking. He grabs the back of Connor’s head, using his grip as leverage to push deeper. He got overenthusiastic; Connor chokes, which he should have expected. Haytham moves his hand to smooth Connor’s locks and lets him set a pace he’s comfortable with. 

Watching the assassin’s lovely face as he pleasures him is quite the sight. Marking it would be delightful, but he’ll have time for that later. "I’m going to come. Swallow." Connor grimaces. Haytham tightens his hold on Connor’s hair and pulls harshly: a warning. "You’ve been so good, you really don’t want to start disobeying now. Remember who will be paying for it." That curbs any potential rebellion. Connor doesn’t fight Haytham at all when he grabs his jaw, holding it open to see himself spill on Connor’s tongue, and swallows as soon as he frees him.

Haytham smiles as he watches Connor fighting not to fidget, unsure of what comes next now that he has accomplished his task. "That was a performance worthy of praise, a great way to start the evening. Continue like that, and your friends might come out of here alive and well." Connor’s expression hardens. The prospect of more to come obviously doesn’t enchant him, but Haytham has no doubt he’ll force himself to go through everything for their prisoners’ sake. 

He’s not showing any physical sign of interest in what is happening to him, which is a pity, but predictable. Haytham would have been more than willing to reward Connor for such good service. No matter. The night is still young. He fully intends to make Connor come while he takes him as hard as he wants to. Let him revel in his detachment for now. He’ll be begging for more before he knows it.


	6. Haytham/Connor, somnophilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11518574#cmt11518574): So Connor and Haytham were on a mission together and due to weather problems they are forced to stay in either a cave or a hotel (if a hotel they are forced to stay in the same room) and during the night Haytham wakes up and realizes that Connor is still asleep, but having a..."exciting dream". Well Haytham can't help himself and decides to give him a hand.
> 
> You can decide if Connor wakes up out if he stays asleep throughout it.
> 
> Bonus points if Connor is having a dream about Haytham.  
> Even more bonus points if Haytham fingers Connor while he's so asleep

Haytham should have known his son wouldn’t be impaired by sleeping in such unwelcoming locales. The dreadful weather forced them to spend the night in that tiny, cold, humid cave. Haytham has been falling asleep and waking up minutes later all night long, and he’s quite tired of it. Connor, damn him, didn’t have any problem falling asleep. Waking up to see Connor’s relaxed face each time is quite annoying, to be honest. 

It’s not the case this time. Connor usually is a quiet sleeper. He doesn’t move and breathes deeply, without making a sound. He sleeps like the dead, but wakes up in seconds if he detects a threat. At this moment, he’s turning and twisting and his breathing is heavier. Haytham catches on when Connor lets out a moan. Oh. He was unaware that Connor had a libido. God knows he never shows interest in women, or men for that matter. 

That’s a much better way to spend time than staring at the cave’s ceiling. He crawls closer, reaches gently to touch the skin of Connor’s exposed belly. The boy sleeps only with his trousers on, despite the ambient cold. He doesn’t seem to react. Emboldened, Haytham starts stroking the skin, softly, watching like a hawk for any sign of Connor wakening, but only a slight whimper indicates that Connor has any awareness of what’s happening. Haytham lets his hand go lower and rubs against his son’s erection though the clothing. There’s a sharp intake of breath and Connor pushes against his hand, looking for friction. Haytham can’t be expected to resist such a sight. He’s getting hard, but who wouldn’t in his position. He gets to indulge himself further. 

He slides down Connor’s pants and frees his own burgeoning erection. He pushes himself next to Connor and allows himself the courtesy of tasting the skin of his neck. Leaving a mark is so tempting, but he decides not to risk it. He does wrap his hands around both their erections and watches raptly as Connor’s face morphs under the pleasure, listen as the whimper turn into deeper moans and cries. 

Connor really is very accommodating and still, after all that stimulation, shows no sign of coming out of his torpor. Maybe Haytham can push this even more. One of his hands move from their cocks, travels behind, between Connor’s thighs, until it reaches Connor’s rim. The fingers are slightly wet from precome. Hopefully, it will be enough.

The first finger slides in without too much resistance. Connor does trash a little, but doesn’t fight. He’s limp and relaxed from sleeping after all. Haytham wonders if he could take Connor, add fingers and stretch him until he’s fully open for him and entering him would barely disturb him. He’d have to be so careful, to mind each of his thrust as to not wake him. He imagines fucking him until he comes inside of him, pulling out as tenderly as he could and wait for the moment he opens up his eyes, completely befuddled by the evidences left on his body that his brain would refuse to comprehend. 

The images are too much for Haytham. He orgasms, his come covering Connor’s belly. Connor is still hard and still into deep slumber. His hips twitch as he fucks Haytham’s hand, as he pushes himself on Haytham’s finger. He can probably take another one without problem. 

Turns out he can, and from the sounds he’s making and the way he’s moving, he’s loving it. Haytham moves his digits faster and deeper, tightens his grip around Connor’s cock and drinks in the moment where Connor shatters, where his come rejoins Haytham’s on his skin. 

Haytham wishes he could spend the rest of the night staring at his debauched son, but he doesn’t think Connor would be very appreciative. He cleans him up as well as he can manage in a cave, then takes care of himself until all telltale signs have disappeared. 

Facing Connor as if nothing had happened will be quite the challenge, but not one he can’t conquer. He has a much harder quest in front of him. The night was so pleasant, he has to find a way to convince Connor to let this happen again while he’s awake. How much fun will that be.


	7. Charles/Haytham, D/s, bottom!Haytham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=8837635#cmt8837635): So there is this quote from Haytham,
> 
> “Order. Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It’s your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom. Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal, that of peace.”
> 
> and for some reason my mind insists that there needs to be a Charles/Haytham D/s prompt based on this. With Charles on top.

The feeling of an unseen hand stroking his chest almost manages to pull him out completely of the emptiness of his mind. Almost, but not quite. Even if his sight is blocked by the blindfold, he absolutely trusts that Charles wouldn’t let anyone other than himself near him when he’s in such a state.

Peace of mind is hard to achieve for him. Their goal is so close, they’re so close, but sometimes it still seems so out of reach. Men won’t learn, they won’t understand the need for order over everything, and yet, Haytham can’t allow himself to fail. He must conquer, for the Order and for all that he sacrificed, all those left behind or tossed aside.

Charles showed him that he needs time liberated from these thoughts. Under Charles’ patient tutelage, he learnt how to clear his mind, focusing on Charles’ commands to the exclusion of everything else.

He stays still under the increasingly forward caresses. Holding back moans when he’s taken in hand is hard, but he was told to stay silent so he manages, even as the hold tightens around him and a thumb slides across the head.

He’s suddenly freed; Charles moves up his body to meet his lips with his own. Haytham opens up eagerly.

“You’re always so good for me. You deserve a reward. I’m going to remove the blindfold.”

The world reappears before him. Charles fills it, always watching for him, making sure he’s safe. Calm. Peaceful.

“You’ll continue to do well, won’t you?” Of course he will, and Charles knows it. It’s a rhetorical question; Haytham doesn’t answer it.

“Go on. Spread your legs. Prepare yourself for me.”

It’s nice not to have to think for a little while. Haytham moves to obey the directive, reaching for the salve and coating his fingers generously. The fingers slip inside easily. They usually do.

“Wider. I want to see you.”

Haytham still sometimes struggle with leaving himself this exposed. It goes against his every instinct. He needs a reminder from time to time. He opens his thighs, vaguely pleased that he doesn’t blush easily under Charles’ attentive gaze.

Charles never displays any shame. He lets his eyes roam over Haytham’s body without hesitation. He once said he could never be ashamed of doing something for Haytham, no matter what the circumstances were.

With three fingers inside, Haytham would be ready for Charles, but that doesn’t mean Charles is ready for him. He might have Haytham play with himself until all his fingers can enter easily, leaving him so open, until he comes only from this and Charles’ presence.

He wishes he could do something about his erection, now leaking.

“Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

Charles feels giving. He’s lucky. “Take me, Charles. Please.”

Charles signifies his approval by way of sweet kisses as he pulls Haytham’s digits from himself and starts with a slow, teasing pace. It’s not enough, especially with Charles holding his hands above his head, stopping him from bringing himself to orgasm. Not that he would, not without express permission.

Charles is laughing at him. Haytham can tell. “I just told you: you have to ask for what you want.”

Of course. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

He’s indulged, like he is most of the time. Charles can’t help himself. It feels much better now, with each thrust hitting him just the way he enjoys most, making him scream until he comes for the assault. Charles follows suit.

Haytham breathes deeply as Charles untangles himself from his body. His warmth disappears, letting his mind unoccupied. The weight of his responsibilities can almost instantly be felt on his shoulders. Reality always makes itself known too soon.

Charles comes back with a wet cloth and starts cleaning Haytham. “No. Don’t start worrying yet. Let me do this for you, then sleep. Tomorrow will come soon enough, even without your concerns.”

Haytham kisses him. It will do.


	8. Altaïr/Robert, Altaïr is secretly Robert's lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is only a short segment of the prompt, with lots of inspiration from the [pic](http://37.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mc7p3mYu7Y1r0q9tco1_500.jpg).
> 
> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11925358#cmt11925358): ANONS! WHAT IF ALTAIR WAS A DOUBLE AGENT AND ROBERT'S SECRET LOVER ALL ALONG?!
> 
> What if Altair MEANT to get Kadar and Malik killed back in Solomon's Temple and had expected for Robert to get the Apple anyways, but was foiled when Malik came back with the Apple?
> 
> What if all along Robert didn't mind Altair killing his fellow Templars because it meant that he would get the Apple all to himself like how Al Mualim wanted it?
> 
> What if at the end once Altair kills Al Mualim (and just makes it look like Robert died like Al Mualim did to him in the beginning) and he joins the Brotherhood with the Templars under Robert's command?!
> 
> TL;DR Altair is Robert's double agent spy and secret lover, in which he kills all the other Templars and Al Mualim, then joins the Brotherhood with the Templars under Robert's command.

Robert’s fingers linger on the blood stains. They’re obvious against the white of the Assassin robes. While most of them probably came from the pawns they had chosen to sacrifice for their trap, some of them could very well be from Malik or Kadar. They could be seen as the ultimate proof of his loyalty. After all, even after having orchestrated the death of those two, whom he has known all his life and cared for more than any other Assassin, he is still here, responding fervently to Robert’s touch as his hands try to find their way under the robes.

Or, perhaps Robert just enjoys seeing him covered in blood. That wouldn’t be surprising. Or unwanted. 

Robert’s grasp on his hips tightens as he tries and fails to push Altaïr into riding him faster, into taking him deeper inside of him, but even with the twisted mix of the fight against Robert, faked as it was, and the thrill of deception still running through his veins, he won’t let himself be controlled. Robert will take what Altaïr gives. 

His eyes wander to his throwing knifes, discarded almost as soon as he arrived and Robert had jumped on him, as eager as he was, and he is assaulted by an image of Malik, hurling one of these to a Templar during the fight to try and escape futilely. Malik, always so ready to believe the worst of him, didn’t think twice about Altaïr’s motivations for guiding them into the ambush that lead both him and his brother to their death. In a way, this had been the riskiest moment of the mission. Altaïr liked Malik. He had hoped Malik would stay unaware until the Brotherhood was theirs. With time, patience and persuasion, he might have understood one day. But it was not to be, and so Malik had to be dealt with, his personal feelings pushed aside for the greater good. Altaïr will mourn him later, not when he can feel pleasure rising at each thrust of Robert’s cock inside of him. He speeds up, but he still has to take hold of Robert’s arms to anchor himself as he’s pushed off and to the ground, to be immediately taken with all of his lover’s considerable strength. It’s always a power play between them, a constant struggle for domination, and Altaïr wouldn’t have it any other way. Altaïr wraps his legs around him, hides his own grin by pressing it against Robert’s as his nails dig rivulets of blood into his back. Robert just fucks him harder. 

Altaïr comes under the repeated assaults and lets Robert take his pleasure from him until he spills inside of him. Robert kisses him, leaving his mouth as bruised as the rest of him, a faint taste of blood lingering on his tongue. It’s perfect. 

Once they’re done, Altaïr surveys the damage. He knows he looks beaten, battered; not an unexpected outcome, nor an undesired one. He revels in the soreness, and it will make his story all the more credible. 

He shrugs out of the remains of the robes he was wearing, the mistreated garments now destroyed beyond repair by their tryst, and can’t help but notice that blood isn’t the only thing staining the fabric now. He grins again. It seems fitting.


	9. Altaïr/Ezio/Desmond, prison AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=7433291#cmt7433291): AU!Fic
> 
> Altair, Ezio and Desmond get sent to jail. Ezio and Altair decide to protect their little brother from being raped by any of the other inmates by showing everyone that Desmond belongs to them.

It’s not really a surprise to Altaïr that Desmond got busted. Desmond’s still a kid, the way Ezio and he haven’t been for years. He’d give him shit for saying that, but it’s true. 

Desmond hadn’t wanted anything to do with the family business, but William wouldn’t take no for an answer, and their work doesn’t exactly allow for half-hearted effort. So Altaïr and Ezio did everything they could to cover for him when they were out, because they liked their younger cousin (not really their cousin, who knows exactly what they are to each other, their families a mess of marriages and alliances, but all of them part of the Brotherhood and that’s what’s important) and he didn’t deserve to be thrown in their world without the training they got and that he refused to take on, no matter what. But they got caught; they couldn’t protect him anymore. Without them he screwed up, and now he’s here. 

Altaïr would have preferred to see him again once he got out, but he’s shit out of luck, so their first meeting since then isn’t really a meeting, it’s him glancing up in the mess and seeing Desmond picking a fight with Vidic, shit, what the fuck is this kid’s problem that he’s been here for a fucking day and he’s already going against the worst people in this hellhole? 

The thing is, jail is going to destroy him. He’s way too mouthy for his own good and he has no idea what he’s in for. Altaïr can already see Robert de Sablé going up to meet them, and he’s got to do something before this escalates. It’s not like the useless waste they hire as guards here are going to protect Desmond. That’s always been Altaïr’s and Ezio’s job, and now that they can do it again they’ll do it again, and if Desmond doesn’t like their methods, he’ll have to learn how to deal because they’re going to get him out in one piece. No matter what.

Ezio apparently is both on board and ahead of him on this one, because he’s already over there, wrapping an arm around Desmond’s waist and pushing Vidic off firmly but not aggressively. He’s staking his claim, and Desmond has no idea what’s happening, the idiot, because Ezio has always been pretty tactile and this is normal to him. 

He’s got more than a few looks thrown his way, because Ezio and he are a thing, a faction they made sure no one wanted to piss off, and Ezio just taking the fresh meat off the market looks pretty fucking strange. 

Altaïr joins them, put a casual hand on Desmond’s shoulder that earns him a startled look; he doesn’t touch people like Ezio does. “So, kid, couldn’t stay out there without us to watch your back?”

Desmond glares. “I can take care of myself, thanks. The cops were already here when we got there, they knew, I bet that asshole Ha-”

For fuck’s sake. Altaïr stops him with his hand. It’s not fucking classy. “Shut the fuck up, you don’t talk about family business here, are you completely dumb?” Shit. Can’t have those losers know that Kenway’s desertion keeps fucking them over.

Vidic grins. Damn it, he caught on. At least it proves that Desmond’s part of the Brotherhood. It marks him as an enemy, but one to be taken seriously. 

Most of the scum in this place don’t know shit about the Brotherhood. They’re secret, and way too big a deal for them. Vidic and the Sablé are in another playground altogether. The Order and the Brotherhood have worked against each other since their creation. Can’t have them try to take Desmond from them. He’s theirs. 

After that, dragging Desmond to their table isn’t hard. Vidic won’t go against them openly. 

To keep Desmond safe, he just has to make sure there is not one moron left in this place that doesn’t recognize their claim. That’s going to be slightly more difficult. 

__________________

Altaïr and Ezio share a cell, because this prison’s a joke and you can bribe the guards with pretty much anything, so it’s not a hardship to get the guards to make sure Desmond’s put with Antonio, who they get along with most of the time, knows better than trying to take advantage of what’s theirs, is pretty much neutral in the prison’s power games and will probably piss himself at the chance of learning more about their business. He doesn’t know about the Brotherhood, but he suspects. He’s trying to lead his thieves into the bigger leagues. He’ll keep Desmond safe because he knows what’s good for him.

Not tonight, though. Their claim has to be incontestable. Desmond has to be seen tomorrow with his fair skin marked, and if he has some difficulty walking, it would just work better. Nobody would dare touch him after that. 

So the guard leads Desmond to their cell and leaves. 

“What the fuck? Not that I don’t want to see you guys, but there’s two beds in those cells and I’d rather sleep tonight.” 

Ezio laughs. “Dear cousin, you’re out of luck. There are enough beds for our purposes, and I don’t believe you’ll get much sleep tonight.”

Altaïr wishes Ezio could sometimes use the subtlety their craft demands in conversation. For all he knows, Desmond is a virgin. Their families are so huge as to be omnipresent, and Desmond, who most could see should not be in their line of work, grew up sheltered as everyone tried to keep them from the business. There was always someone around, him or Ezio or Federico or Kadar, to keep him as safe and innocent as possible. 

But even Desmond couldn’t misunderstand that comment. 

Before Desmond starts panicking or demanding explanations, Altaïr starts talking. “Look. This is jail. There’s no woman. You’re young, you’re pretty and you’re new. You’ve got “fresh meat” written on your forehead. We’ll do what we can, but we can’t be with you at all times. The easiest way for you to get out undamaged is to make it clear that you’re ours. People here know us, they won’t fuck with you, or fuck you, if that’s clear.”

“Wait, so the touching in the mess was, what, you two telling people: “He’s our bitch, don’t touch or you’ll regret it?” You’re insane. This is crazy.” Great. Desmond is freaking out and Ezio is glaring at him. Damn it. 

Ezio takes Desmond in his arms in a fraternal embrace. “Cousin, you trust us not to hurt you, yes?”

Desmond stills, then nods. 

“Then trust us when we tell you this is the best way to keep you safe.” And then he ruins it. “It is also much more fun.”

Altaïr hits the back of Ezio’s head. “Stop being your sleazy self for one minute. Just one.”

Ezio leers. “Ah, but you love my sleazy self.”

If he rolled his eyes harder he’d hurt himself. “Yes, Ezio, I love everything about you.”

“It’s nice to know some things don’t change. You guys are still fucking ridiculous. How you got together, I’ll never know.”

“It is a mystery to me too. I also wonder why I, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, decided to settle for him. I still encounter so many disappointed women, each time I have to explain that I cannot love them because I have been taken by a brute. It is a disaster; you could never understand my burden.”

His. life. At least Desmond seems more relaxed, so there’s that. 

“Is this really the only option? Because no offense, but you’re not my type.”

“Oh, please, do tell us about your type!”

“Well, female is a good start.”

Ezio sighs. “You really are out of luck then. I still think you are luckier with us, two wonderful specimen of the male gender here at your disposition, instead of Vidic, a sadly plausible possibility." 

“That guy in the mess?” He gulps. “That’s your strongest argument yet.”

“So you must agree that Altaïr and I are your best choice. Really, we would not urge you to do this if we didn’t think it necessary. Please, let us protect you.”

“Okay, fine, what the hell. It’s not like I want to be raped by disgusting shitholes.”

“Great!” And then Ezio kisses Desmond. With tongue. A lot of tongue. Altaïr almost wants to push him off, because he could have soothed him into this instead of jumping him like he hasn’t fucked in years, but once the shock passes, Desmond doesn’t seem to hate it. Ezio is holding Desmond’s head in place as he devourers him with his lips, and Altaïr didn’t think this would work for him, but he was wrong. It’s hot to see Ezio pulling back, Desmond’s face already flushed and subconsciously following Ezio’s lips as if he didn’t want the kiss to end, before returning to his senses and trying to take a hold of himself. “Wow, you don’t hold anything back. Is Altaïr not putting out enough for you or what.”

Ezio is laughing at him. “I keep Ezio satisfied, thanks. You’re the one who’s all bothered by one measly kiss, kid.”

“Oh no. If we’re doing this, you don’t call me kid, that’s just wrong.”

“Fair.”

Desmond hisses. Ezio, not one to let himself be interrupted by petty things such as conversations or manners, has removed his own shirt, pushed up Desmond’s and is currently teaching Desmond about what his mouth can do for his chest. 

“You should have started with his neck. It would have been visible tomorrow.” 

Desmond sends him an outraged glare. Ezio retorts: “Everyone is a critic. Come over here if you do not appreciate my method.”

“Hello, still here. Also, wait, the two of you, together? Shouldn’t one be enough?” 

“You’re right of course. Altaïr really does not have to do anything. He can stay on his side on the room, on his bed, and we’ll stay right here, on ours.” It’s not like Altaïr can say he doesn’t know what he did to deserve Ezio, because he does, but he’s still terrible. 

“So what, he’ll… watch?”

“I guess so. He won’t be able to sleep, not with the noises you’ll make, and there is not much else he can do.” 

Desmond is blushing again. It’s a good look on him. “Are you crazy? There’s no way I’m going to be loud, everyone will hear.”

“That, cousin, is rather the point.”

“Oh.” 

Sensing that Desmond had no more objection, Ezio kisses him again. Desmond gets into it quickly, kisses back shyly, then with more vigour. His hands reach tentatively for Ezio. He doesn’t seem to know where to put them, before settling on his shoulders. He’s rewarded with Ezio finally taking Altaïr’s suggestion; he attaches himself to the side of Desmond’s neck to leave a frankly impressive series of hickeys. Desmond lets out these obscene little whimpers that turn into moans when Ezio reaches the area just under his ear.

Altaïr’s breath hitches. From the way Ezio raises his heads and catches his eyes, he heard it. The grin that appears on his face sends chills down his back. Ezio turns his attention back to Desmond’s neck, but his hands spread over Desmond’s back and chest, lingering, teasing, pushing Desmond until he’s displayed for Altaïr to admire, Ezio behind him as he caresses the back of his neck with his tongue and plays with Desmond’s nipples, forcing out more moans out of his bruised lips. 

Ezio is a monster. He knows perfectly well what he is doing. There’s no way he can watch this and stay still. Ezio catches his eyes once more, smiles in a way that should be more illegal than their usual activities, and goes back to his duty, debauching Desmond, but keeps his eyes on Altaïr as he slides his hands down Desmond’s pants to rub his half hard cock. 

That’s it. Altaïr shoves his hand inside his pants and starts stroking, hard and fast, but Ezio is glaring at him. What’s his problem? He’s the one who didn’t want him with them. 

Ezio continues glaring, and Altaïr stops. That stare is just not a turn-on. Ezio pushes down Desmond’s pants and underwear like the most twisted reward Altaïr has ever had. Goddammit. He’s better make it worth his while, because this is torture. 

Ezio starts jacking Desmond off quickly, like it’s a race he has to win. Altaïr can’t see, but he knows that by now Ezio is hard, most likely rubbing himself against Desmond, who really doesn’t seem freaked out by feeling an erection against his ass. 

Desmond comes as Ezio bites him gently and twist his hand just so over his cock. The yell that spills from his mouth is no doubt heard by their neighbours. 

Desmond collapses on the bed, unmindful of dirtying it. He’s taken the whole thing pretty well. “Is it enough, you think?” He can’t be unaware of them not having come. That’s usually not how sex works, unless it’s bad. 

Ezio laughs and pulls out lube from a small drawer. “Oh no. I’m going to fuck you, but making you come before will have relaxed you and made it easier.”

Desmond, predictably, tenses. Receiving a handjob is easy, but being fucked is a whole other thing. 

“Don’t worry, cousin, I am quite knowledgeable in the matter. I will make sure you love it. Now, roll on your belly.”

Desmond is still pretty hesitant, but he does as Ezio asks. It’s not that surprising, in a way. He’s never been a coward. He has fought against his father as long as he could. He tried to leave, but hiding from the Brotherhood took skills he didn’t have. Fear had nothing to do with him not wanting to be a part of their world. 

Ezio is a tease, always has been. The asshole enjoys dragging out prep until his partner begs for him to do something, anything. Desmond has no idea what he’s in for. But when, after gently caressing Desmond’s thighs and spreading them apart, he goes to explore with his tongue instead of his fingers, Desmond is not the only one swearing. That’s probably too fucking much for him, but that’s not going to stop Ezio. 

Fuck Ezio. Altaïr rises, goes to Desmond’s side and takes his hands, clawing at the sheets. “It’s okay. Let him do it. It’s good, right? He won’t hurt you. Just, breathe.” He’s pretty sure Desmond forgot he was there. Altaïr runs a hand down his back, tries to be soothing. He thinks it’s working. Desmond relaxes, doesn’t try to fight Ezio. It doesn’t take long for him to start moaning again under Ezio’s tongue. 

Altaïr stays. He’s not sure he could go. 

When there’s no trace of tension left in Desmond’s frame, just constant incoherent noises, only then does Ezio starts fingering him. Altaïr has to give this to Ezio; Desmond takes them without too much difficulty. The third one is always a struggle, but they shouldn’t have worried: Desmond likes it. He likes it quite a lot, if the way he’s pushing back against Ezio’s every move is an indicator. 

Desmond starts begging, though he doesn’t seem to know what he’s begging for. Good for him. Ezio will probably start fucking him soon. 

Yes, he was right. Ezio is made of strong stuff, because not only did he manage not to touch himself until then, but he also resists the plea Desmond emits when he removes his fingers.

Watching Desmond take Ezio for the first time is an unforgettable image. Desmond, his whole body flushed, simultaneously hiding his face in the mattress while raising his ass for more. Ezio, trying to stay in control, not to fuck Desmond too hard, not to hurt him, but it’s all over his face that he wants to, that he needs to. 

Thinking it might have been Vidic, or Robert or anyone else pining Desmond to his bed and witnessing him being this vulnerable drives him crazy. That’s not going to happen.

Desmond does scream. For someone who wanted to be quiet, he’s very loud. There’s no way the guys around them aren’t listening. They’re probably jacking off to it. Altaïr can’t really blame them, because Desmond sounds like porn. There’s no way he’s not enjoying every single thrust of Ezio’s cock in him. 

Ezio whispers in Desmond’s ear, too low for Altaïr to hear, but whatever is being said is without a doubt perverse beyond measure, if judging by Desmond’s reaction. But he nods, so it’s fine.

“Altaïr, Desmond agrees with me that leaving you alone is unfair, after all the kindness you’ve demonstrated, so he would be willing to make it up to you. With his mouth, if you are so inclined.”

There are very few things that Altair has wanted more than this at the moment. He’s so ready for it, he knows he won’t last long, so better make it count. He removes his clothes as if they’d been burning him, and sits close to Desmond. It doesn’t take very long for him to take him in his mouth.

In any other situation, this wouldn’t be much fun. Desmond is clearly unexperienced with blowjobs and has no idea what to do to make it good, but it’s hot and it’s wet and he can feel him moaning around him when Ezio hits him just right. The visuals also make up for the poor performance. Seeing how much he loves taking it, seeing Ezio all over him, lowering himself to cover his back and wrap a hand around Desmond’s dripping cock, it’s all too much. 

“You should come quickly. Others won’t be able to hear him scream as I take him if his mouth is otherwise occupied.”

Really, fuck Ezio. “That won’t be a problem.” He tangles his hands into Desmond’s short hair and fucks his mouth. He shouldn’t have, it’s too deep for Desmond and he chokes, but it feels fantastic. He pushes out and comes. Desmond gets it in the face, and he’s not quite gone enough not to thrown him a scandalised look, but he’ll live. 

Ezio takes Desmond’s capacity to feel something else than extreme pleasure as an insult to his prowess. Of fucking course he does. All restrains are removed, and Desmond is getting fucked through the mattress. If anyone around was sleeping, they’re not anymore, that’s for sure. Not with Desmond howling like he’s getting murdered, riding Ezio’s cock like he’d die if he didn’t have it. 

When he comes, he crashes like a puppet with no strings, all spread limbs and terrible angles. Ezio lasts a little bit longer, but not enough that Desmond starts feeling uncomfortable. He looks like he still loves it, so whatever. Altaïr goes to fetch them all something to clean up. 

Ezio ends up curled around Desmond. He never had the shame to hide his love of cuddling after sex. Altaïr throws a towel in his face before starting on cleaning up the still quite out of it Desmond. He falls asleep while Altaïr tries to make sure he won’t wake up with jizz in his face. 

“He should be fine now, won’t he?” Ezio doesn’t even try to hide the worry. It’s not like Altaïr doesn’t share it. Desmond is theirs, now more than ever. 

“He will. Nobody here has that much of a death wish.” There’s no question that anyone that touches him will die. It would be a joke to arrange a hit, even here in this shitty prison, and the people that matter fucking know it. 

“Ha, you’re right.” Ezio hesitates, then asks: “You are not jealous, or angry at me, are you?”

“What the fuck? No. You did what had to be done. You might have had slightly too much fun, but you’re you, I’m the idiot that didn’t expect it.”

That gets him a smile. “If you are not angry, then you must indulge my overwhelming need for cuddling.” He gets dragged next to him and Desmond. This bed is seriously too small for three grown men, but that never stopped Ezio. They go to sleep, entwined.


	10. Ezio/Connor, dealing with Connor's touch aversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9981955#cmt9981955): Ezio is very affectionate, tactile and LOVES touching and being touched. Connor is utterly opposite. Ezio can't believe it, so he starts lightly teasing Connor about what he's missing. Then, Ezio starts fleetingly touching him, on purpose. A brush of a hand against his arm. Clapping him on the shoulder for a job well-done. Wiping the dust off of his robes and making sure they're tied properly. This slowly escalates into a bro hug, which Connor finds himself returning and actually enjoying. Friendship or smut, I don't mind either. Just want to see Ezio helping Connor loosen up and his reaction to someone being so affectionate with him.

Everyone is pleased to see Connor come back from his mission in London safe and sound. He had insisted he be the one to go, having lived there before, but it was his first solo mission so far from their reach, and his brothers and sisters had been worried. 

Ezio isn’t surprised to see Connor dodge Bastiano’s overenthusiastic embrace. Being crushed between the man’s huge arms while bruised and tired from his trip wasn’t an enviable fate, no matter how well-meaning the gesture was. Bastiano’s smile droops visibly, but Connor is alive and well so it comes back soon enough.

Connor shrugging off Annetta’s hand from his shoulder, that seems stranger to Ezio. The touch was kind. Surely Connor would appreciate the warmth of a friendly face after all this time alone in hostile territory. His sister wouldn’t begrudge him this much. 

His sister is also quite beautiful, and one does not refuse the touch of an attractive woman. 

And yet, as Ezio watches from afar, Connor refuses, as politely as he can, all physical contact from either brothers or sisters. Most don’t remark, but Luciana is obviously hurt by his perceived rejection and Laura looks confused when Connor evades her attempt at patting his back. 

Connor isn’t one for effusiveness, but he has never been cold or distant. And yet, now that Ezio thinks about it, he can’t remember Connor reaching out for someone, even by reflex. Now that he is surrounded, a spectator such as Ezio can’t help but notice how every touch is deflected. 

This cannot be borne: Connor, alone in Roma, having left behind what was left of his family, cut off from even the most basic pleasure that is another human’s skin against his. As their Maestro, Ezio has to protect all of his recruits, and as far as he is concerned that includes protecting them from themselves. 

Ezio moves with all his considerable skills, cautious of staying out of Connor’s sight and using the presence of his apprentices flooding Connor as a distraction, until he can snake an arm around Connor’s shoulders and lean against his massive frame. “Welcome back, Connor. I trust your mission went well, yes?” 

Connor tries to free himself from the unwanted arm, but today is not the day one of his students will defeat him. Ah, if looks could kill. “It was fine.”

“Still a man of few words, are you not? As the rest of you can see, our youngest recruit came back both healthy and victorious. Sadly for him, he still has to report to me before he rests. Go on, back to your own contracts!"

The recruits disperse, some more willingly than others, but Connor doesn't relax, even when only they are left.

Ezio removes his arm. Connor immediatly puts space between them. All traces of tension disappear and he starts recounting his mission. Ezio lends him a distracted ear. Connor resents others touching him. He needs to be taught that contact isn't to be feared, but to be seeked. 

Ezio knows he is the man for that job.

He cuts off Connor. “This is all very interesting, really, but you and I have other topics to cover today. I could not help but notice that you shy away from touch as if it would hurt you. My friend, that is no way to live.”

Connor frowns. “I don’t like people touching me. Anything else is irrelevant to you.”

“Shall you spend the rest of your life estranged from all, depriving yourself of the joy of a friend’s embrace or a woman’s caress? You would miss out on much, I can guaranty it.”

“I have no interest in hearing about women caressing you.”

“Then it is your loss. The point remains: touch can be pleasant, regardless of its nature.”

“For you, maybe, but not for I. Please stop bothering me about it.”

“All right, all right, let’s not fight about this.” But if he thinks Ezio will forget, he is wrong. So very wrong. This was only the start of his campaign. 

_________________________________

Connor never flinches from what needs to be done. He strives to be as expert an assassin as he can be. He wants to be able to face everything without reservation.

When Ezio strides up to him and offers to train him privately in an advanced form of hand-to-hand combat, Connor accepts eagerly. 

He loses the eagerness when he realises that said method of combat involves Ezio repositioning him into the correct forms. There's a hand on his lower back, pushing him forward. There are fingers around his wrist, adjusting his hidden blade to ascertain it won’t be in the way. There's Ezio's body behind his, demonstrating how he should move, what he should do. 

Ezio can tell it unnerves him, but he endures, and Ezio teaches on. He continues until Connor is so focused that he doesn't even flinch when Ezio reaches to move his forearms.

In all, a rising success.

The training sessions keep happening. 

____________________________________

Vittorio comes back to headquarters with an alarming amount of blood staining his robes. Most of it can be traced back to the heavily bleeding cut on his open arm, probably caused by the sword of an enraged guard that he couldn’t dodge. He collapses as soon as he crosses the threshold. 

Connor reacts quickly, picking him bodily and setting him down gently somewhere safer. Salvatore tends to his wound while Annetta tries to stop Orfeo from fretting too much, to no avail. 

Gently, Ezio puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. The flinch is instantaneous. Why? Connor didn’t even twitch while carrying Vittorio! The hand stays. “He will be fine. Salvatore knows what he’s doing, and if he fails Orfeo will flay him."

"I am not worried."

"Of course not. That is why you are still keeping watch despite the fact that you are covered in blood."

Ezio gets both a glare and a blush. Apprentices are so cute. Ezio congratulates himself again for his selection of students and keeps the hand where it is. It’s not batted away.

____________________________________

"No."

"What?"

"You are not going dressed like that. They will not even let us in the building. Change into these. Now."

Connor has a plethora of qualities, but fitting in high society isn't his forte. They can't infiltrate this party with him wearing what he considers appropriate. 

Connor returns once changed and Ezio applaud his tastes. He does look much better with Ezio's selection on, but really.

"Come here."

Ezio straightens the hat. He buttons the doublet and arranges the fur-trimmed mantle. He manages to contain his urge to adjust the hose. He ties the drawstring of the chemise. His hands might linger slightly too long for propriety on Connor’s neck, but who will tell?

Connor suffers through the indignities done to his person without too much grumbling. Ezio considers this a victory.

____________________________________

He should have brought Alessandro. He’d have navigated the party flawlessly, charming ladies and impressing men all night long, just like his mentor. Or Zita. They would have complemented each other well. But no, Connor was the one available. Ezio is not going to make that mistake again. If he had not gotten the information they were looking for, Ezio might have feared for his life.

Connor spent the night trying, and mostly failing, at gathering information by chatting and flirting. He looked like he hated every single minute of it, which probably didn’t help.

Some young lady had been quite taken with him anyway, and had someone managed to have him dance with her, having surely insisted quite heavily. How a skilled assassin like Connor could turn so clumsy, Ezio could not even begin to understand, but he tripped. And fell. And sprained his ankle. 

His fellow apprentices will be laughing at him for weeks, if not months. 

Ezio gets to drag him out of the party, thanking heaven for filling the place with idiots who somehow missed their disappearance, even after this catastrophic exit. 

Connor has to steady himself on Ezio to walk. He doesn’t hesitate to grasp his shoulder. Ezio puts a hand behind him to catch him should he loses his balance. It’s all almost companionable. 

____________________________________

Haytham Kenway. That's the name of their next target, a powerful Templar operating in England. It's also Connor's father's name. 

Connor left London because of troubles with his family that he refuses to talk about. There has been quite a lot of speculation in the hideout about what could make Connor, loyal to a fault, leave family and country behind to start anew in Italy and join their cause at such a young age.

Ezio will not assassinate Connor's father behind his back. He has to tell him.

Connor resides in a room on top of a tailor shop, in the Campagna district. At this hour, it's where he'll be.

Connor is surprised to see him. Ezio respects his students' privacy; he doesn't usually appear in their home, but this demands secrecy. 

"Maestro. What is it?"

"Hello to you too Connor. Why, yes, I have indeed had a delightful day."

Connor rolls his eyes. He's so charming, this one.

"You being who you are, I believe you will prefer that I be blunt. Our next assassination target is Haytham Kenway, acting leader of the English branch of the Templars."

It's immediate. Connor's face reveals too much, anger-fear-astonishment-sadness-resignation, before turning blank.

"It was going to happen, sooner or later. Best deal with it now."

"So this man really is your father?"

"Yes."

Ezio hesitates, takes a deep breath, and then plunges. "You do not have to answer, your loyalty isn't in question, but why did you choose to fight for our cause? Weren’t you raised in the Order’s faith?"

"Maybe you should question it. Treachery is in my blood."

"Foolish. There is no one more trustworthy than you."

"All my mother's legacy. She was one of us, as was my father and his father before him. I was raised with their values guiding me, to join the Assassins one day. But he betrayed her memory when he chose to follow the enemy's ideals. He turned his back on us all and hid it from me, until I discovered him betraying our secrets to them. I left. We haven’t seen each other since.”

For Connor, this was rambling. He’s trembling, reliving every moment as he narrates them, his fingers bunching into fist. Powerless. 

Ezio wraps his arms around Connor, one hand holding his head, pushing it in the crook of his neck, the other stroking his back gently.

Ezio holds him until the muscles against him loosen up, and then until Connor’s hands clutch at his clothes, and then until something wet drops on his skin, and then until it doesn’t anymore, and then some more. 

____________________________________

Ezio goes by himself. He leaves Roma to journey to Venezia, where Haytham Kenway is expected to an extraordinary meeting with high ranking members of the Templars stationed in Italia.

He waits until the meeting is over with, after the Templars have stopped anticipating an ambush, before approaching his target. Connor described him as an extremely talented Assassin, well connected and respected by the English Brotherhood before his betrayal: a dangerous man. 

Kenway doesn’t travel with a huge entourage, only with a few trusted allies. From the way they move, they don’t have the training Ezio and Kenway share. Ezio positions himself, unseen, shoots him in the head and makes his escape. They won’t catch him. They can’t. 

An informant confirms the kill the next day. Ezio returns to Roma.

He doesn’t stop by the hideout. The others don’t have to know about another dead man. It’s routine. Instead, he delivers the news to Connor himself, who appears to take it stoically, but Ezio knows him better by now. The urge to take the burden from him, to hold him until it passes once more, is almost overpowering, but he can tell Connor won’t accept it. He needs time to accept his new reality. 

Ezio will respect his wish. He leaves. 

____________________________________

Connor isn’t seen around for a few days. Ezio tries not to listen to the voice in his head that says he might be gone for good, but he shows up again like nothing happened. 

It would be a lie. All of it breaks a dam. Connor becomes, well, not exactly friendlier, but a little more approachable, less reserved toward him. There’s weight in them sharing something hidden from others. Connor doesn’t react to him so explosively anymore. In fact, Ezio believes he started making a conscious effort not to reject him. That’s still far from casual enjoyment, but it is progress.

Maybe it is time to let the recruits in on his quest. 

Or just some of them. That would be safer.

____________________________________

Annetta invites Connor to share dinner with her, her husband and their two-year old daughter. It turns out Connor likes playing with children. The family and he get along well. It becomes a recurring event.

Candida bothers Connor until he reads Machiavelli’s writings. Ezio thinks she just wants to argue about it with someone other than the writer himself. Finding them fighting about books, or rather finding Candida screaming and Connor waiting until she’s done before saying something that starts the tirade all over again, becomes normal.

Alessandro tries to bring Connor along to a visit at the Rosa in Fiore, which, no, what was he thinking, Ezio shouldn’t have talked to Alessandro about this, just has Connor staring at him, uncomprehending, before he becomes so red he must be burning, backs away from him slowly and starts avoiding him for the foreseeable future. 

Zita, because Zita is a lady after his own heart and isn’t above imitation, starts sparring with Connor. This is probably the closest he ever was to a woman. It should be sad, but somehow isn’t. No, Ezio does not understand why either.

Ezio chose no idiot as his recruits. The others catch on, or they heard. Finding new ways to fraternise with Connor turns into the local sport. Ezio saves him from time to time, when all the attention overwhelms him. Together, they lurk into the alleys of Roma and run across its roofs. Sometimes they stop to appreciate the view or to stare at the stars. It reminds Ezio of spending time with Federico, but there is something different about it, something Ezio can’t quite pinpoint. He talks to Connor about him. Connor tells him about England: his mother, his grand-father. His father. Most of the time they end up pressed against each other, shoulder to shoulder, Ezio with an arm around Connor. Sometimes Connor even initiates it.

Life goes on. When Connor doesn’t give a second glance at Vittorio grabbing his arm and lets him drag him toward his latest inadvisable scheme, Ezio considers his quest accomplished and savors his success. 

____________________________________

Luciana is standing in the shadows of the armory, Connor close to her. Ezio, having been the star of such scenes more often than he can remember, can almost hear her words as she confesses her affection to Connor. Alessandro will be pleased; he's the winner of that betting pool.

Ezio might be happy for them if he thought there was any chance of Connor returning her sentiments.

Here. Connor is obviously uneasy and the way he's crossing his arms, creating a barrier between Luciana and himself, speaks volumes about what he says.

Luciana flinches, but nods and leaves quietly. Good.

Wait. What is good in the scene he just witnessed? Luciana is heartbroken and Connor probably is still lonely. Maybe he needs support. Ezio should go meet him, maybe give him another hug.

This makes no sense. Why comfort Connor and not Luciana? She's the one who suffered the most in this ordeal. But, somehow, she’s not the one he wants to be close to. 

He's been looking forward to touching Connor, to finding new ways of reaching him. Every day. For weeks, if not months. Feeling Connor finally relax under his hands is the highlight of his day.

He can't quite remember the last time he bedded a woman. It might have been Caterina. Or Fiorina from the Rosa in Fiore. Or Eloisa who lives near the Mercati di Traiano. His memory is faulty.

He does remember the last time he bedded a man, but it was a very long time ago and best forgotten.

How long has he been in love with his apprentice, barely a man compared to him for God's sake, without acknowledging it in any conscious way?

The answer depresses him. Too long. Far too long.

He can't reject him. He can't go to Connor and tell him he must distance himself for both their sakes, thus shattering the slowly built trust, maybe sending Connor back to those days where he dodged all touch or flinched as if a mortal wound had been inflicted. But he can’t continue like this. Now that he is aware of how he feels, he has to be the responsible one, the Maestro, and confront this. 

____________________________________

Ezio does not deal with the situation very well, if he says so himself. 

Reacquainting himself with the ladies of the Blooming Rose does not really help, even if they all are very charming. His appearances are remarked. Claudia starts throwing questioning glances his way. If he turns into a recurrent guest, she will tell Mother about it. Ezio has no desire to have them both nagging him. He becomes careful.

He can’t help it: he makes himself scarce around Tiber Island. Time mends all things, surely this will be no exception. It is not difficult for him to be busy elsewhere: he is always needed.

He ends up missing everyone, quickly. Hopefully he will get over it just as quickly. 

____________________________________

He’s being followed. 

Whoever is following him is good, he almost missed them, but not up to his level. 

He turns, enters a small alley, passes a building and waits against the wall. He’s confident he can take care of whoever will show. 

It’s Connor. He’s been ambushed by his own student, that he did not even recognise. One more reason why he’s a failure as a teacher, he guesses. 

“Connor. How nice to see you. What is it? You must have a good reason to stalk innocent people through the streets of Roma.”

If only Connor was easily baited. He just rolls his eyes. “I would not be stalking you if I could talk to you, but you have been avoiding me. What have I done to deserve this?”

Why has Connor chosen now to become perspicacious? “You’re being ridiculous. I have been busy. It is a thing that can happen when one leads an organization at war.”

“You have been omnipresent for months, touching and prodding and teasing whenever you can, then disappear for weeks and expect me to believe it has nothing to do with me?” 

Said like that, it sounds really obvious. “Well-”

“Because I thought…” and the rest of the sentence is lost in inaudible mumbles. 

“Excuse me? Could you repeat that?”

“I said I thought you had been... courting me. Annetta and Salvatore thought so too. You haven’t spent that much time with any of the others apprentices. It is not that I am not… interested, I just needed some time to get used to the idea, but then you started shunning me. I am sorry, I am not used to such things, so if I did something wrong you must tell me.”

Oh God. What. He has been so obvious that even his student could read him. Do all the recruits know? Is there a betting pool about them too? “Connor, you did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault. It is I who is sorry to have made you feel that way.” A breath. He needs to be honest about this. Connor deserves this much. “It is true, I have been absent by design. I… only understood recently how I feel about you. I am your teacher, much older and more experienced than you. If I chose to pursue this, I would be taking advantage of you. I was trying to wait until it passes, for both our sake.” 

Connor is not impressed. “So I am mature enough to kill people and fight for our freedom, but not enough for this. With the lives that are ours, isn’t trying to protect me at this point futile? You don’t get to make those decisions from me. Let me make my own choices, just like I will let you make yours.”

Connor could barely stand to have someone pat him not so long ago. He has no idea what he is demanding. Ezio chooses a course of action. What he is intending probably makes Ezio a bad person, but with time Connor will see he wasn’t ready and he will thank Ezio for it. Maybe in a few years they can talk about it. Until then, it will be a nice memory to cherish. 

“Fine, if you are going to be stubborn about this.” He grabs the back of Connor’s head and crushes their lips together. He forces his tongue past Connor’s lips, trying not to dwell on how this might be his first kiss. He kisses with all the passion he’s being struggling to ignore, as if he’s devouring him. 

Connor freezes. He’s going to push him off, realises how terrible an idea this is, and that will be the end of this foolish venture. 

Except that is not what happens. He’s pushed against the wall and _thoroughly ravished, by Connor_. Ezio moans into it immediately, presses his whole body against his, coherent thoughts having fled him, fingers twisting in the fabric of Connor’s clothes. 

It’s Connor who cuts off the kiss, who detaches himself from Ezio and grins at him triumphantly. “Are you still going to argue with me after this? I feel this is an argument you will lose, Maestro.” 

That backfired rather dramatically. Connor is not scared, or troubled, or hesitant. He knows what he wants. 

Maybe Ezio is the one who is scared. Time to be courageous, then. “I feel so too. Well. I will agree to try this, us, only if you promise me you will tell me if you ever, and I do mean ever, make you uncomfortable, in any way. Do so without fear. I shall do everything in my power so that there are no consequences for you, either as an Assassin or personally.” He’s already thinking of having Machiavelli assign Connor missions, or maybe Annetta. Someone who is not him. 

“I thought I proved I could take care of myself. I do not fear you, I never have, but if it soothes your mind, I swear it.” The unconditional trust is part of the problem. How can he be so trusting after having been betrayed so deeply by his own father? 

Ezio will just have to be careful. Connor has never been afraid of speaking his mind. He hopes it will be enough. 

Ezio takes Connor’s hand. Such a simple gesture, a new one, Connor’s callused hand in his, warm. “Let it be so, then.” They walk the road back to the hideout, together.


	11. Robert/Altaïr, alpha/omega, heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11878510#cmt11878510): Got a bad kink for Omegaverse lately, and it's even worse with Robert de Sable and Altair.
> 
> In some way Altair gets captured, brought to Robert, and while being patted down guards find Altair's Omega suppressants.
> 
> Que Alpha!Robert, imprisoning Altair until his suppressants wear off, goes into heat, and then pretty much fucks his brains out. And since Altair has turned into a total slut at this point, enjoys every minute of it.
> 
> BONUS POINTS FOR:  
> \- Knotting +100  
> \- Robert dirty talk to Altair +500  
> \- MEGA BONUS! Robert is nicer to him since he's an Omega, and firmly believes that Omegas don't belong on the battlefield, which frustrates Altair but he secretly likes that +1,000  
> \- SUPER MEGA BONUS!! Aftermath of heat and Altair is confused if he actually enjoyed that, and can't decide if he wants to stay +My freaking soul and first born

Kadar is losing. Death would be the kindest fate he could expect should the Templars take him. All Assassins are prepared for torture, but omegas always risk worse.

There is a kinship uniting the omegas of the Brotherhood. Often ostracized by accident or by design, they support one another when betas and alphas won’t. He doesn’t have to think about it. He focuses on Kadar’s assailant, takes a few seconds to deflect the sword coming for the younger omega with his.

It’s a few seconds he couldn’t afford. Robert de Sablé comes from behind him, thrusting his sword into his shoulder. He barely manages to dodge, but the resulting wound, while not life threatening, still stuns him for a moment. Robert gets a hold of his wrists and holds them together behind Altaïr’s back in such a way that releasing the hidden blade would only lacerate his own hands. Robert’s sword rests against Altaïr’s throat. He can’t escape.

He witnesses Malik dragging both Kadar and the Apple away as the remaining Templars are ordered to make sure Altaïr won’t have the slightest chance of running. At least Malik will be pleased; he has proved himself better than Altaïr and is rid of him. A complete success, surely.

The remaining henchmen fidget, unsure of their role but pointing crossbows at him while de Sablé searches him for weapons. He is rigorous. He finds every short blade and daggers, removes all throwing knifes, disarms the hidden blade with an ease that speaks of familiarity and that is cause for concern, but as long as he doesn’t find the herbs…

“And what have we here?”

Many countries have outlawed the use of suppressants. Christianity denounces them as an unnatural tool to hide oneself from the duties given by God. Islam shares a similar discourse. The Assassins don’t care: everything is permitted. They will use every tool at their disposition.

Still, even if the consequences for possession can be quite dire, they are frequently used everywhere. The rich and the powerful don’t let prohibitions dictate their actions. For the average man, it can still be worth the risk. The probabilities that every Templar in the room has been in contact with suppressants in some way and can tell what is in the small pouch are very high. Suppressants have a particular, quite pungent smell.

Robert de Sablé addresses his men. “Congratulations! You were all defeated by an omega! Make sure to tell this to your fellow soldiers while you narrate your exploits of tonight.” They redden. So embarrassed and ashamed of having failed against him, like many before them. What they all thought never stopped Altaïr.

De Sablé turns to him. “You serve cruel masters. Barbarians, really. Forcing you to take drugs and sending you to the battlefield addled and handicapped when you should be bearing children with an alpha watching over you.” Robert grabs his chin, abnormally gently, to look into his eyes, before letting his gaze roam over the whole of him. “Not that you would have difficulty finding one, too. It really is a pity what they do to you. When the Templars destroy your faction, rest assured that your brethren will be treated as omegas should. So will you.” The hand supporting his chin rises to cover his mouth, stopping him from letting out the myriad of rebukes such words demand. De Sablé hails two guards. “Make sure he’s secure and have him kept in a proper chamber for an omega. I want him safe, I want him healthy, and I want him as guarded as he can be. And for God’s sake, destroy those suppressants. The sooner they’re out of him, the sooner he’ll understand how his order has wronged him of what should be his by nature.” The guards throw themselves into obeying. Under the Templars’ Grand Master’s vigilant gaze, he’s gagged and tied, dragged and passed around until he’s on de Sablé’s horse, de Sablé himself holding the rein from behind him. They’re pressed together, and Altaïr hates that he can’t kill him, that he’s tied and that his shoulder, sluggishly bleeding, will need tending to soon enough.

They ride and ride until they reach what must a Templar base, a surprisingly huge castle that Altaïr has never heard of. The two guards take charge of him once more. He’s sent to a doctor who does a better job at bandaging his wound than he should for a prisoner, then thrown into a room with steel bars blocking all openings in the outside wall. The door is blocked and locked from the outside. Altaïr is left alone.

Isolation isn’t a problem for Altaïr. He sleeps. He eats when food is brought to him. He meditates. He goes through plans after plans to try to find an escape route. He keeps his mind occupied. Anything not to feel the minutes pass, the suppressants slowly leaving his system.

His room is guarded by an almost exaggerated number of betas. Almost. Altaïr knows his strength. No alphas around to be distracted by his rising scent, turning heavier as time advances.

For him, interrogation would have been easier. He’s not Kadar. He is Al Mualim’s favorite. He can take anything the Templars throw at him. This, this endless waiting for a betrayal of his mind and heart by his body, this is insupportable.

When he wakes up, the sun rising on the third day of his incarceration, the first symptoms have started to manifest. He is restless, unable to stay still, yet his body is sluggish. The world becomes more fragrant. He can tell the exact number of guards surrounding his room from their faint scent, the mark of a beta, nothing like the sweet smell of other omegas or the musk of a strong alpha.

It only worsens as the sun rises and falls. He can’t focus. He startles at every noise. There is heat travelling through his limbs. After hours of such torments, he falls into a troubled sleep.

He wakes up in fire, erection thrusting against the bed. The heat has taken a firm hold of him during the night. The need hits him hard, stops him from doing anything other than taking himself in hand and rub until he comes, an unsatisfying orgasm that barely clears his mind. He knows it is not what his treacherous body crave.

He removes his clothes. He won’t need them. Other things will be required. Aware of his enemy’s goal, he isn’t surprised to find salve left for his use. In this case, he won’t complain.

He’s loose, ready to welcome an alpha. The first finger enters him too easily, barely gives him the friction he’s looking for. It takes three to make it good for him, but it still isn’t enough. If only the guards weren’t all betas, he’s sure he could get one to join him in here. They are soldiers. They’re strong. They could take him, push him down the bed and fuck him until he screams… But they’re still enemies. Someone friendly would be better. Malik would. How he’d rejoice, having Altaïr under him, helpless against the need in his blood, opening for him. The image of Malik hammering into him until he has shouted himself raw drives him to completion.

He breathes deeply, trying to take advantage of a few minutes of clarity to regain some control. As much as he hates it, it will only get worse, the heat increasing its hold on him, robbing him of his mind and his autonomy until he’s satisfied. For that, he’ll need an alpha.

Not that he has much experience with alphas and heat. The Order has all omegas taking suppressants as soon as they manifest. He’s been told it is to favor equal treatment for all, but a new omega is always the subject of gossip. Every resident of Masyaf is aware in a few days. Whether they can smell it or not doesn’t change a thing. It is well known that suppressants are really taken so that alphas aren’t distracted by the omegas. It also allows omegas to save their first heat for their spouse.

All ridiculous, if you ask Altaïr. But no one would ask the omega.

Through his dazzled mind, the departure of one of the guards is remarked. He’s probably going to report about his heat. They’ll send him an alpha. There’s no point in leaving him like this. He’ll be barely coherent soon. They won’t get anything out of him.

Maybe he can make it quick. He’s stretched. He’d need no preparation.

The world starts spinning slightly. Altaïr lies on his back. He stares at the ceiling. He waits. It’s torture, but he wants to be as ready to confront the alpha as he can be. His hands dig into the sheets.

There’s an alpha approaching. Their scent calls to him. He can almost see them advance in the hallway.

But there’s something… He recognizes the smell. He’s met that alpha.

It hits him as the locks are opened. Robert de Sablé. Not only the Templars will shame him by using him when he’s most vulnerable, they’ll do so by the hand of their Grand Master, the Assassins’ most loathed enemy.

Robert enters the room. Altaïr immediately feels underestimated. The man came alone and unarmed. Then he feels exposed, naked, while de Sablé unabashedly stares and joins him on the bed. Finally, the presence of an alpha hits him, and Altaïr loses the next seconds to the overwhelming desire that has him rub his whole body against de Sablé’s.

The laugh de Sablé lets out frees him from that spell. “Here. This is how you should be. This is what you were born to do. Let yourself have this. You’ll thank me after.”

It can’t be borne: Altaïr punches him. Or try to: he isn’t at his peak. De Sablé dodges easily and tackles him down the bed. Altaïr can’t repress the shiver, not helped by de Sablé’s hand caressing the side of this face. “Oh, you still have this much control. You really have a strong will. You’re wasted as an Assassin. They had you and decided to send you to your inevitable doom instead of letting you follow your instincts. Pure folly.”

De Sablé kisses him. Altaïr should bite. It’s what he’d do if he could. Instead, he opens his mouth and fists his hands into his clothes, intruding barriers between them. Robert sees it as the invitation it was; he plunges. Clothes are removed as fast as humanly possible. Altaïr is hard, he’s leaking, he needs Robert into him now, and Robert knows. He slid a finger into Altaïr, the tease, that’s not what he craves. Robert must agree, because the digit is pulled out and swiftly replaced by Robert’s cock. Altaïr howls.

Robert fucks him, each thrust more violent than the next, and that’s exactly what Altaïr needed. Teeth sink into his neck, a show of dominance that has Altaïr moan and tilt his head. It’s the prelude to Robert’s knot, finally breaching him, until Altaïr feels so full, so complete. Robert starts coming inside of him, and it’s too much for Altaïr.

Between the whimpers and the inspirations as Altaïr tries to settle down while Robert is still inside of him, still so good in him, Robert pushes Altaïr’s head to his neck, caresses him in a soothing motion even as he grinds into him, the knot an unmistakable pressure inside of Altaïr that will deliver him to ecstasy once more soon enough. “I wish you would have let me be kinder to you. You deserved to be treated with more respect. All of us have our role to play and all of us deserve respect for it.” He’s being kissed again, a tender press of lips, almost chaste. “But do not worry. We’ll have other occasions.”

They will. Altaïr is already hardening again. His heat is far from over.

________________

“I told you not to move.”

Altaïr never liked being ordered around. He trashes.

“Stop or I’ll tie you up.”

There is a small, far away part of him that react at this, that tells him not to submit to him of all men, to fight him off. It’s drowned by the part that loves it, that wants nothing more than stay still under the alpha’s tongue slowly mapping his body, Robert spreading his thighs and settling between them as he travels lower, lower, lower…  
________________

“More.”

“I am so sorry, I didn’t quite hear you. Please repeat.”

“More, please.”

Robert’s laugh now sounds familiar. “Of course.” He speeds up the languid pace he’s been torturing him with for what appeared to him as hours, but it’s still too slow, too shallow. Not what he needs. He uses his nails to scratch Robert’s back deeply and growls. Enough of this teasing.

The message is understood. Altaïr screams as Robert slams into him.

________________

“Come on, you can do it.”

He can, but it’s hard. Rising and falling on Robert’s cock demand both coordination and strength, and he has exhausted both. Even when supporting himself on Robert’s chest, it’s still much to ask for.

Robert grabs his erection, pulls and tugs until desperation has him riding him faster, deeper, until Robert’s come warms him inside once more.

________________

It is like the world changed from one morning to the next. Everything appears the same, but nothing is familiar. His every muscle hurts if he so much as twitches, but never as much as his spirit does when he observes the man sleeping in his bed. Robert de Sablé. He gave himself to Robert de Sablé without a fight. He let him have him. He loved every single moment of it. This couldn’t be him, not Altaïr, Al Mualim’s beloved pupil, a Master Assassin, one of Masyaf’s strongests. Not him, sharing a bed with Robert de Sablé.

He has to leave. He can’t stay here any longer. It will destroy him.

But how does he escape?

By being who Robert wants him to be, of course. He couldn’t escape before: he had no hook. He does now. He starts planning.

When Robert wakes, Altaïr evades his gaze. He is blushing slightly, and his expression isn’t as hard as it could be. He doesn’t make a move to attack.

Robert grasps his face until their eyes meet. Altaïr holds only a few moments, then looks elsewhere. When Robert moves to kiss him, his eyes widen but he doesn’t fight.

Robert smiles, satisfied. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you understand. It was inevitable. You’re mine, as you should have always been. Leaving you to your own design, without an alpha of your own, was bound to be disastrous.” He pulls Altaïr next to him. “I will take care of you. Never shall you be on a battlefield again.”

Altaïr stays silent, but snuggles closer to Robert. It is comforting.

Robert helps him clean up and guides him outside the room that was his prison for a relative eternity. He doesn’t say anything when the guards throw suggestive looks, when they make crude jokes about how easy the omega slut was as soon as they pass.

Robert locates their commander and has them all demoted. It surprises Altaïr that Robert is this serious about omegas, about him. Most men would have let such incidents go, if not joined in. He can almost hear the bragging.

No matter what kind of man he is, he is still an idiot. He lets Altaïr into his personal quarters and tells him he’ll be back soon. As soon as he’s gone, Altaïr rampages through the place, finds secret documents and unheard-of information, and then escapes with it all through the window. He’ll be late to Masyaf, but he won’t come back empty-handed. He’ll use what he got today against the Templars. He’ll become stronger. He’ll fight. Until this affront is avenged. Until the day he can have Robert’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now a series:  
> \- [cracky AU version fic of this fic ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4308864)  
> \- [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4400166)  
> \- [alternate dark ending to the sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4443909)
> 
> Or you can now find it all as a standalone story [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7551043).


	12. Altaïr/Robert, other alpha/omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a [misfire fill](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12001390#cmt12001390) written for the same prompter as [the other Altaïr/Robert alpha/omega prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4281468). I'd say it's an AU of that fill, and thus might make more sense if you've read it.

Finally, one of the guards tasked with the surveillance of the omega comes for him. There can be no mistake: when even the betas can tell, an omega is burning for an alpha to join them. The waiting has been excruciating, but it is now over with. 

Robert dismisses his subordinates, taking note of the alpha, who probably thinks he’s being quiet, complaining that it’s not fair the Grand Master gets the omega, that he should share, like omegas are commodities to be traded. There will be consequences.

Of course, he knows where his omega is kept, but even if he didn’t, finding him wouldn’t be a hardship. The irresistible scent escapes his room, creating a trail that the alphas close by want to follow but know better to. He’s the only one allowed to tread these tracks. 

His hand on the unlocked door, he waits a few seconds, savoring the anticipation and the knowledge that on the other side is the price he wrestled from the Order of the Assassins, flushed and overwhelmed, his. 

He pushes the door.

The scent is instantly overpowering, but never as much as the sight of the omega himself. He’d been expecting to see him blushing, spread over the bed, and covered in sweat. If he had been very lucky, maybe close enough to the edge for pleas to escape him. 

God must be rewarding him, because the Assassin is leaning on his chest, legs spread and hips raised as he’s pushing four fingers inside and stroking himself. Robert stands, stunned, as his omega moans and trashes under his own touch, until he comes, crashing on the bed. Only then does he seem to realize he’s not alone in the room. He turns his head and hold Robert’s gaze as he deliberately spreads his legs even further and bring his right hand, soiled with his own seed, to his lips. 

“I- You- Nnngghh” He can't -mind blown- “I love you.”

He gets a downright dirty grind in return, and there is nothing else to do but join him on that bed and make sure he takes the cheeky omega until he can’t spare a single thought to being such a tease ever again.


	13. Altaïr/Robert, even more alpha/omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for a sequel to [the first Altaïr/Robert fill](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4281468). Here it is.

The map stolen from de Sablé’s room indicates the castle is somewhere south of Damascus. Now that he knows where he is, he could go back directly to Masyaf. Al Mualim should be told of his escape as soon as possible. 

He’ll stop by Damascus before. It will lengthen his trip, but in the end it will lessen his burden. 

The Templars haven’t given chase. Altaïr was probably too far by the time his disappearance was noticed. It might also be that they couldn’t find him; he used less traveled paths rather than the main roads. 

Entering Damascus isn’t difficult, but walking its streets is. Being a lone omega is risky; most don’t dare. The robes the Assassins wear are designed for subtlety, for blending in, but when every gust of wind carries his scent, he can’t help but attract the attention of merchants and workers who wouldn’t give him a second glance otherwise. Guards are worse. Most of them are alphas, and they’re used to people surrendering to them. The roofs are far easier. 

If the Rafiq of Damascus is surprised to see him drop through his roof, he hides it behind his usual demeanor: “Altaïr! How nice to see you, friend! I should have known stories of your demise were greatly exaggerated. The great Altaïr would not fall under a couple of Templars’ swords. What bring you to my bureau?” The smoke coming from the burning incense, flowing through the air, only masks his scent from afar; as Altaïr reaches him, he catches on. His face falls a little, becomes serious; it’s the face of someone who won’t ask but knows much. “I shall have what you need in a few hours.” Rafiq are aware of their city’s underbelly like no one else. Suppressants won’t be hard to find for him. “Do you require any other treatment?” 

“No, I am fine. Do not worry.”

“Stay here, friend. Rest until I return.”

He does. The pillows he lies on, the smoke reaching every corner of the room, the sun hitting his face; everything is familiar and safe. He falls asleep easily.

________________

The trip back to Masyaf is smoother. He procures a horse and uses the main road. He revels in his restored anonymity, to the observer just one more beta in an ocean of others, nothing to be concerned about. 

He’s recognized when he reaches the outskirts of the town. His absence was remarked, his return even more so. People lower their voices when he passes. They share glances. They don’t talk to him, nor should they. Altaïr must report to Al Mualim before anything else. 

Rauf hails him. “Altaïr! You’ve returned! We thought you dead.” 

“I am still alive, but I must talk to the Master.”

“Yes, of course.” Rauf wants to say more, but this isn’t the time and they both know it. 

Altaïr spots Abbas and evades him. He has no patience for his insults and insinuations today.

He’s quickly ushered to the Mentor’s side as soon as he enters the Fortress. Al Mualim rarely lets his emotions on display, but his evident concern warms Altaïr. It reminds him that not every alpha is an enemy. 

He can’t lie to Al Mualim. He lets clinical words describe what happened to him without lingering on it. Al Mualim deplores Robert de Sablé’s continued existence, but never as much as Altaïr himself. He updates him on the Solomon’s Temple mission: Malik and Kadar both safe, the Apple theirs. A weight he hadn’t been conscious of disappears. The mission was a success. It wasn’t in vain. He almost stumbles as the tension leaves him. Al Mualim notices and releases him to his rest, but not without ordering him to visit Salim immediately.

It isn’t a visit he wants to make, but he would never skip it. 

He thanks the Mentor and departs to find Salim’s workshop. He enters the room, where Salim is currently mixing a remedy or another. There is no one else. At least in this he is lucky. “Salim, a word.” 

The healer jumps, so focused he missed his arrival. A smile appears on his face when he recognizes him. “Altaïr! You’re alive!”

“Yes, but this isn’t a courtesy call.”

Salim frowns. “What is it? Where you tortured? Where are the wounds? Show me!”

“No, I am healthy, but I’ll need... something else.” 

Altaïr isn’t the first to come to Salim for such things, and he won’t be the last. He sighs and locks the room, usually left open. For Assassins, privacy isn’t a common luxury. “Tell me what happened.”

The second retelling, even curter than the first, isn’t easier. At the end, Salim knows what to do. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a splattering of herbs, with firm instructions about when to take them and how often, and a standing order to come back as soon as possible should they prove unsuccessful at preventing the pregnancy. 

Altaïr doubts it will be necessary. Salim is a master of his craft. 

He leaves the workshop, the herbs safely kept in a pouch next to the rest of the suppressants, intend on finding his room. He’ll confront his brothers tomorrow.

He should have known he wouldn’t be given this choice. He spots Malik as soon as he crosses the threshold of his chamber, sitting on his chair like it’s his right. It comes back to him in a flash, the fantasies he’d entertained while under the heat’s hold, Malik taking him. He pushes everything aside. Altaïr can’t handle Malik right now. He’ll deflect. “Al Mualim told me you had been promoted. Congratulations on completing the mission.” 

Malik startles. Whatever he was expecting Altaïr to say, this wasn’t it. He starts a sentence, stops, starts again. “Thank you.” The silence hangs between them. “I saw what you did. You saved Kadar. He’d be dead if you hadn’t shielded him. Even if your impatience caused the attack in the first place, I guess the Templars amply punished you for it.”

Altaïr feels himself tense. Malik shouldn’t know. There are no marks on him, Altaïr made sure of it.

It’s Malik’s expression that reveals the truth. There’s no judgment, no pity. Malik thinks he’s been incarcerated, maybe interrogated rather forcefully, but he looks fine and so he must be. Altaïr relaxes. This he can deal with. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. How is Kadar?”

“He’s well. He was worried about you. Make sure to visit him tomorrow.”

He’ll end up lashing at Malik if this continues. He always rubs him the wrong way. “Don’t order me around. You might have been promoted, but I still outrank you.” 

Malik visibly restrains himself. “I can see you’re tired. I’m leaving for tonight, but don’t think this is the end of this.” He raises himself up, walk through the door, but turns before closing it. “Just take care of yourself, would you? Can’t have the great Master Assassin defeated by carelessness.” 

“Yes, Malik, I will. Go.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving.” The door closes, rather more violently than it needs to. 

Altaïr goes to bed in blessed solitude.

________________

The Fortress is oppressive. Altaïr has to deal with furtive glances, whispers following his steps, well-meaning friends commiserating. There is crass speculation, but nothing as bad as it would have been if he’s came back without suppressants. Speculation would have been replaced by certainty. He’d have been shunned, like his defilement could spread. Some have suffered it before. It is one of the risks of their business. 

He’s respected. He came back suppressed and safe. His brothers and sisters will talk, but this is all they will do. 

He finds Kadar in the garden, chatting with a few other omegas. They disperse once they see him, leaving the two of them alone, but they linger not too far from them. For all talk of equality, most high-ranked assassins are alphas, with a few betas here and there. Altaïr is the only Master Assassin in Masyaf who is also an omega. Many envy him his success or hope to emulate him.

Kadar embraces him with too much eagerness. “Altaïr! You really are safe! Brother told me so, but he can be obtuse sometimes. Thank you so much for saving me! I will repay this debt, I promise.” Altaïr lets Kadar prattle on. It’s soothing.

Seeing they won’t get anything special from him, the other omegas still hanging nearby leave. Kadar stops babbling as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What really happened, Altaïr? They did not manage to capture _you_ and then throw you in a cell to rot until you ran.” Trust Kadar not to be fooled by the airs he puts on. 

“They destroyed my suppressants.” Kadar won’t need to know more. It’s a possibility all omegas learn to live with.

“Did you kill them?”

“No.”

“Did you get Robert de Sablé?”

He waits a second too late before answering. Kadar catches on. “What is it? What did he do? Oh.” He leans on him and takes his hand, wordless gestures of solidarity. “He’ll pay. The Order is after him, it’s only a matter of time before another opportunity arises. We’ll succeed this time.” He says it with such conviction, Altaïr almost believes him to be capable of it. 

“Don’t tell Malik.”

“I would never! He might take it upon himself to avenge your virtue.” Kadar speaks that sentence with all seriousness it deserves: while rolling his eyes, mimicking Malik’s self-righteousness with more enthusiasm than talent. “Maybe it would be the shock he’d need to start his courtship.” He instantly turns contrite. “I’m sorry; alphas probably are the last subject you’re interested in.”

He’d much prefer listening to Kadar rambling about his favorite unlikely theory that Malik and he are meant to be than facing his pity. “Don’t apologise. I’m fine.”

Kadar just gives him a look. He’s obviously not convinced. He squeezes his hand. “Just… tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.” 

How weak he must look that Kadar, still almost a novice, believes he needs to be babied? “I don’t need your concern. Worry about yourself. You let yourself open back there. You need more training.”

Kadar allows the distraction. They don’t talk about it again. 

________________

Life goes on. He quickly goes back to his duties. He isn’t surprised when the Mentor summons him. With the Apple in their possession, they are ready to move forward with their plans to take down the Templars. Altaïr is given his next mission: the assassination of Tamir, a merchant working in Damascus and a Templar. He is told that it is one of many Templars whose deaths are necessary for the Brotherhood, and that many are combining their efforts toward the accomplishment of their goal.

He leaves with Malik, who has been tasked with the elimination of Garnier de Naplouse. 

The assassination goes well, as do the others. 

When Al Mualim tasks him with the final death, Robert de Sablé, to be accomplished at Madj Addin’s funeral, he hears his Master’s message that he should not hate his victim, but it does not reach him. De Sablé deserves his hatred as surely as he deserves to die. 

He departs for Jerusalem with a lighter heart.

________________

Only when he goes for the killing blow does he comprehend the deception. Blinded by his desire for revenge, he didn’t let himself acknowledge the slighter stature and the unfamiliar scent, a different alpha hidden under the armor. The woman taunts him, flaunts de Sablé’s strategy. The urge to kill her rises, but she isn’t his target and so he lets her go. 

He rides for Arsuf. He eliminates everyone who tries to block his path. 

He ends his ride once he meets King Richard. Trying to convince him of de Sablé’s treachery turns out to be futile. The king won’t listen to him, especially not with the Templars’ Grand Master spitting out lies in his face. But as long as he doesn’t reveal Altaïr’s nature, he might just change his mind. 

The king declares a trial by combat. Altaïr can support such a choice. 

De Sablé is a powerful opponent. As much as it pains him to admit it, he might suffer better if he didn’t use the closeness the duel dictates to talk to him. “So we meet again, Assassin. It appears I was too soft on you. I expected you to understand what you needed once shown. I underestimated the power of your Order on their slaves. It was my mistake, one I won’t make again. Expect no more freedom when you’re back in my bed.”

Altaïr blocks out the jeering of the surrounding soldiers and choose to focus on the pile of their comrades’ corpses. De Sablé couldn’t have made a more obvious declaration of war. “The only bed you’ll ever lie in again will be the earth, and I won’t be sharing it with you.” Altaïr redoubles his efforts. 

When it finally happens, Robert de Sablé’s death by his blade is the sweetest he’s ever brought. He’d like to reveal in it, but if Robert de Sablé didn’t lie, as unlikely as it seems, then Altaïr has other, more important worries. This must wait.

________________

“Who is she?”

Altaïr frowns. “Who?”

“This girl you’re drawing. It isn’t the first time I see her.”

The Apple sometimes distracts him with mirages, visions of the past or of what might have been. This little girl, strong and playful but too fair, her hair too pale, is but one of the phantoms it mirrors. He sees her something, playing with other children too young to know better under the wary glares of their parents. 

“She’s no one.”

Malik scolds. “That’s why I have been finding sketches of her all over the place. Because she’s no one. Do you take me for an idiot?” He snatches the drawing, still barely an outline of her face, and stares at it. “She looks like you.”

“She doesn’t. You’re delusional.”

“And you’re defensive. She has your nose. And your lips. Maybe your ears, it’s hard to tell on this drawing.”

“She is but an illusion the Apple likes to torment me with. No one of import.”

“The Apple couldn’t torment you with someone who doesn’t matter!” Malik startles. “You have no sister, no cousin. When did you lose a child?”

“I didn’t! She never existed!”

The sheet of paper crushes under Malik’s grip. “She’s a few years old. You didn’t have someone then. I would have known. You never had. People are starting to talk, saying you should be married already, that it should be your duty to give the Brotherhood heirs. Does she have something to do with that?”

Altaïr slumps, defeated. “I’ll be honest, Malik, old friend. I have no idea.”

Malik closes on him and grasps his shoulder. “Whose child would she be?”

He could probably continue to argue with Malik, to refuse to answer and antagonise him until they both forgot what they were arguing about, but after all these years, Malik earned the truth. “Robert de Sablé.”

Malik shakes him. “Childish deflexions won’t placate me!”

Altaïr pushes him off. “It’s the truth. Ask Kadar if you do not believe me.”

That shakes Malik. He’s visibly being overwhelmed by disgust. “Why _him_? Literally everyone else would have been better. It’s not like you couldn’t have your pick.”

Give him strength. “I was not exactly given a choice in the matter. He took my suppressants after the mission at Solomon’s Temple.”

Malik freezes. He usually gesticulates in anger. Seeing him still is upsetting. “All this time, this happened to you and you never told me, but _Kadar_ knew. Why?”

“Please. You did not need to know. You’re an alpha, the possibility didn’t even cross your mind. Kadar guessed the first time we met, after.”

“I… It’s been years.” Malik’s voice is bitter, as if he had a right. “Nothing I could say would change a thing.”

“So don’t say anything and let it go.”

“Like you did, hanging on to the image of a girl that never was! Even you cannot think that healthy. If you want children, marry and have some. Don’t let the Apple play you like this!”

He says it like it’s easy, like Altaïr could just go and parade himself in front of alphas and hope he catches their eyes. “You’re one to talk! I’m not the only one alone and childless.”

“I was waiting for you, you idiot! I thought you weren’t ready. I didn’t want to pressure you!”

“Like you could pressure me into anything.” It is lucky he can banter with Malik without thinking about it, because he’s the one who now can’t summon a coherent thought other than “Kadar will be insufferable for weeks, if not months”.

“Well, if you’re that sure of yourself, think about it and come back to me when you have an answer.” Malik escapes the room with all the speed of the Master Assassin he is, leaving a still completely bewildered Altaïr behind. 

He can’t say he ever considered Malik seriously, but he can’t say he ever considered anyone seriously. Maybe Malik was right; he’s been too caught up in things from the past, things that wouldn’t be. 

He knocks on Malik’s door a few days later. Malik pulls him inside and tries to appear calm and collected while he’s visibly steeling himself. Altaïr sees no reason to lengthen this.

“Let’s try it.”

Poor Malik didn’t expect it. “What? What are you talking about?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

He drops the act. “What, are you sure?”

“No, I only came here to tease you and leave. Of course I’m sure.”

The door slams behind Kadar. “Is is done? Are you two together now? When am I going to be an uncle?”

Altaïr starts for the door. “Malik, I’m sorry, I can’t be related to your brother. Goodbye.”

The long-suffering look really is one of Malik’s specialities. “I hate you both.”

Kadar snorts. “No one has ever believed that.”

As Malik and Kadar bickers (I hated him for years! –You wish you had hated him for years, that’s not the same thing), Altaïr figures he, speaking for himself, can’t hate anything that brought him here, in this moment.


	14. Altaïr/Robert, hopefully last alpha/omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a requested dark alternate ending to the [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1564505/chapters/4400166). Read it before reading this.

“I believe I should apologise.” Robert starts removing his armor. “I did not intend to come back so late, but our mission has been retarded by your friends trying to eliminate me again. Don’t worry, we took care of it without major losses.” Once he’s naked, he sits on the bed and caresses Altaïr’s cheek. “I’m starting to think this might be personal. You probably still have allies within the Brotherhood.”

Altaïr moans and pushes back against his hand. “I’m sorry. You can’t possibly care about this right now.” Altaïr in heat never loses his attraction for Robert. Staying away, knowing his omega was slowly losing his mind waiting for him, was torture unlike any other. 

Robert barely has to prepare Altaïr before he takes him. Altaïr wraps his legs and arms around him and spread his head back as he screams, leaving his delicious neck exposed for him to bite. He’s always so welcoming and open when heat takes him over. Would that he were always this way. 

________________

Altaïr wakes up confused and disoriented. The sun blinds him when he wakes, which doesn’t help. He moves to try to hide his eyes. When the pain coming from everywhere hits him, he remembers everything: being in heat, alone, until de Sablé arrives. 

He’s alone once more. Damn it. He’d have loved to watch Robert’s peaceful sleeping face distorts as Altaïr strangles him. It would have meant his death sentence, as most Templars, amused at the beginning by Robert de Sablé’s choice in broodmare, now find him an embarrassment at best and a potential catastrophe at worst. They would love to kill him and be done with it. 

It would be worth it. What he has right now scarcely qualify as a life. 

He lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. Unconsciously, his hand caresses his belly. Still flat. For now. De Sablé had been coldly angry about him not becoming pregnant during his last heat. Altaïr knows he’s been suspected of having found a way to prevent that pregnancy, but with the level of surveillance he’s being subjected to, it would be impossible even for him. The Templar had learnt his lesson. No more carelessly abandoning Altaïr in unsecured rooms. Altaïr has tried every trick: escape and fighting and refusing to eat and seduction and countless others, but to no avail. He was condemned to remain here for the foreseeable future, with only his most hated nemesis as “company”.

Altaïr is aware that most of this can be traced to their first meeting. Not only did he play De Sablé like a puppet, he made sure no fruits would result of their union. He’s never been forgiven for not letting nature follow its course after his first heat. Altaïr had informed him of this not long after the beginning of his second incarceration, both of them bloody from the aftermath of De Sablé trying once again to “exercise his rights” upon his omega. The man had been stunned. It was obvious the thought that an omega might not want to have a child had never crossed his mind. It had been the first time the man had realised Altaïr might not eventually become what he wanted, that his presence and handling might not change Altaïr into the perfect docile omega.

Not that it ever stopped him from trying. 

The last straw had been their son. De Sablé had been so convinced that the pregnancy would soften his temper. That delusion had disappeared pretty quickly. Altaïr had no intention of “taking care of himself for the baby’s sake”, or “bettering their relationship so that they could be good parents together”. Then the child was born, and Altaïr had wanted nothing to do with it, this infant forced on him, despite Robert’s increasingly desperate attempts and threats. Stubbornness had been the only weapon he had left. In the end, the kid had been taken away, neglect having taken its toll. Altaïr hasn’t seen him since. Good riddance. De Sablé still brought him up from time to time, some part of him unable to comprehend that Altaïr didn’t care. He still believed that if enough time passed, he’d crack and beg him to be allowed to see his son. The man was a lost cause. If only he could see that so was Altaïr.

He takes a deep breath. Scraps of his heat start coming back. Their first heat together had been years ago, but Altaïr still can’t accept the memories, coming back blurred each time. It couldn’t be him, begging for cock like a common harlot, every gesture an invitation for Robert de Sablé to violate him, him riding de Sablé until he can’t bear his own weight, or screaming himself raw under each assault. Altaïr grits his teeth as his nails dig into his palms. The bloody crescents are but one more mark desecrating his body, de Sablé’s teeth and nails having left their traces all over him. He can’t deny the truth of his situation when the proofs are spread all over him.

Another memory presents itself. De Sablé did say something about the Brotherhood. That they’re still trying to destroy him, and that it might be personal. Altaïr doesn’t think so. The removal of the Grand Master of the Templar is a logical objective for the Brotherhood, no matter who leads it right now. What he knows about the Assassins these past years, he’s learned from whatever de Sablé gave him, and so his knowledge is both limited and potentially wrong. He said the Assassins led a rebellion against Al Mualim after a failed attempt at mastering the Apple, but who leads it now, he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell. 

Either way, there is no one in the Order foolish enough to attack the leader of the Templars for his sake. If he wants to slip away from this, from _him_ , he can only count on himself, but Altaïr has exhausted all his options years ago. 

He stares at the ceiling, dreading that soon enough lying on his back will be the only way for him to rest, swollen once more by Robert de Sablé’s seed.


	15. gen, Desmond+Ancestors cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11893102#cmt11893102): Desmond and his ancestors snuggling and cuddling pls.  
>  I don't care why, I just want fluff so sweet I get diabetes from it.

He’s waken up by Ezio rolling and accidentally throwing an arm in his face. Shoving it back only has Ezio sliding his arms around his torso and nestling closer, until his face is in Desmond’s neck. 

“Leave me alone, I’m hot.”

Ezio laughs at him and snuggles even closer, something Desmond didn’t think possible. He could fight him, maybe, but to be honest, it’s nice. Okay, no, that’s a fucking understatement. His family has never been the cuddly kind. Thinking of being this close to his dad sort of grosses him out, so he never knew how much he needed the closeness, how much it helped. 

He’s still not used to it. Your three ancestors showing up out of the blue one morning and pretty much stealing you from your allies fucks with your routine. Turns out using the Apple can turn some people immortal, and, lucky him, he’s in that pretty select club, so he’s been taken from his dad and Shaun and Rebecca, because no matter how skilled they were, they just can’t compare to three determined legendary Assassins, and dragged around until they were all holed up in this, admittedly pretty cool, apartment. He even got to send “Don’t look for me, I’m safe” emails, because Altaïr says there’s no way the message can be traced back to them through his installation. A Middle Ages Assassin, now a world-class hacker. This is Desmond’s life right now.

It has its good points. It’s pretty hard to get caught in the Bleeding Effect when the real thing is stroking your back until it passes, while your other ancestor just redoubles his effort to hack into every computer ever to find anything even having a passing resemblance to an Animus and destroy it. Baby is a thing of the past now. Altaïr says it’s because it’s a torture tool that breaks people, but Ezio says it’s really because he’s a private person and finds the idea that everyone will spy on him with Maria terrifying. Usually that’s the point where Altaïr throws something at Ezio and Connor looks on like this shit happens every day, which it pretty much does. 

That’s what they keep showing him: this is what family should be like. 

The first night, they dragged him into that bedroom with that ridiculously huge bed and cuddled him into submission. He’d been ready to fight them off, because nothing good ever came out of strange people forcing him to lie down and telling him it wouldn’t hurt, but Connor just looked at him and told him being together kept the nightmares at bay, and well, Desmond isn’t going to argue with that logic. 

He was right, so they kept at it. Nights without their memories or his haunting his dreams used to be a luxury. Now the occasional nightmare is a rare occurrence, and its effects disappear pretty quickly when a warm body lies near his. 

Connor rolls on his side, rubs the sleep from his eyes like a child would and looks at them both. “Ezio, stop bothering Desmond.”

Ezio just tightens his hold. “Our descendant has been deprived. He needs more contact, not less. He’s almost worse than you were back then.” 

Desmond elbows him half-heartedly. 

Ezio blocks the attack without giving it a second thought. “See, he can’t be bothered to protest properly. He loves it.” 

“Sure.” Yeah, he could have sounded more sarcastic. Shaun would have laughed at his pitiful effort. Whatever, he’s comfortable. He could do with less heat, but the solid weight of Ezio’s arm on his chest and his firm torso against his back are comforting. Hard to worry about Templars or the end of the world when you’ve got immortal killing machines watching over you. Plus, these guys have had centuries to learn how to cuddle, they know how to do it right. 

Connor smiles at them, a soft, sweet smile in the rising morning light. “Well, that’s different.” 

Now he’s got another assassin plastered against him, a head sharing his pillow and another arm reaching over him to settle at Ezio’s waist. The soft cotton of Connor’s pyjamas rustles as he raises one huge hand to pet Desmond’s hair gently. Great, now he feels like a dog. A well cared for dog, but still. 

Desmond makes another, even less credible attempt. “Didn’t you both hear me the first time? Get off, it’s hot.”

Neither of them dignifies him with an answer. Connor gives him the “Don’t lie to me kid, I’m more than two hundred years your senior” stare. Desmond thinks he uses it so often because he was the youngest before Desmond came to share their life and the novelty hasn’t worn out yet. 

“All of you, shut up.” Great. Now they’ve woken Altaïr. Desmond doesn’t turn to look at him from behind Ezio, because if he does he’ll end up laughing at Altaïr’s always ridiculous bed hair and he’ll be pissed. “It’s too early, everyone goes back to sleep.”

He ruins his attempt as seriousness by hiding his face in Ezio’s back and tangling their legs together while one of his hands finds Desmond’s. 

Altaïr has spoken. Trying to resist him can only lead two ways: interminable skirmishes that will inevitably contain a variation of “well, when _I_ was the leader of the Brotherhood…”, or wasting too much time until they end up exactly where Altaïr wanted them. He’s right, it’s still early, Desmond can’t be bothered. He closes his eyes, relaxes into his ancestors’ embraces and squeezes Altaïr’s hand. 

Desmond fears the inevitable day when Rebecca breaks the front door, Shaun and his dad at her heels, finds them, coos that she can’t decide if they’re a living wet dream or cuter than a pile of sleeping puppies with bows on, takes pictures and uploads them somewhere even Altaïr won’t be able to find. That’s something to look forward to, he guesses. 

He lets himself be lulled back to sleep by soft breathing, the only noises in the room, and the omnipresent warmth of their bed.


	16. Shay/Monro, gentle sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12250990#cmt12250990): Come on, am I the only one how shippy these two are? How gentle, patient and paternal Monro is with Shay and how much Shay seems to like it?
> 
> They transfer that type of relationship to bed too - Monro definitely topping, but being slow and patient and gentle every step of the way and Shay melting under his touch.

Shay turns down the offers to spend the night at Oneida as politely as he can. Even if rescuing a few villagers can’t possibly make up for the thousands that died in Lisbon, saving people instead of murdering them only solidifies his belief that the Templars’ path, his path, is the right one. 

All thanks to the colonel, who found him on the verge of death but left him with good, defenceless people that Shay could have killed with ease; who trusted him instantly despite being aware of his troubled past, when sane men would have ended him; who demonstrated his trust once more today, when he gave back the Manuscript to him. 

Shay doesn’t understand why. He needs to talk to him again. He doesn’t know if he’ll be welcome, but he’ll take his chance. The colonel and Weeks won’t leave for Albany in the middle of the night. He’ll still be there, at Onaquaga.

Finding his quarters is easy, but Shay still hesitates before knocking on the door at such an ungodly hour, even more so while still covered in the blood of the French. But he’s here, and with the lives that are theirs, opportunities are to be taken. 

The Colonel opens the door quickly. The maps spread on the desk behind him reveal he’d still been planning their defense. If he’s surprised to see him, he doesn’t let it show. He appears as quietly pleasant as he always does. “Come in, Master Cormac. I see you’ve come back from Oneida. I trust all ended well?”

“It did, sir. The villagers are freed from the Frenchmen. “

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” 

If Shay basks in the colonel’s praises, well, it’s not like others have to know. Achilles always expected results and didn’t consider victory to be worthy of commendation, only necessary, and Shay has never been desperate enough to expect compliments from Hope or Kesegowaase. 

“I really was right about you. I did say I thought you’d left the assassins the moment I found you, but the more I get to know you, Master Cormac, the more I believe I understand why. Did you feel so underestimated that a few words are all you need?”

Shay startles. Why is that man so perceptive? He thinks back to them, to the past that seems both too close and so far away: Hope’s constant disappointment in him, the secrets they all knew that they kept from him, the constant ache of Liam rising above him, the future Mentor, while nothing was expected of him, even the time when his warnings and fears about having decimated a whole city were ignored with no explanations. It still hurts. 

The colonel isn’t done. “It must be perplexing, surely, to be so instantly trusted when you never were before.”

That isn’t exactly fair, especially to Liam, but: “It is. I don’t understand why you would take such a risk, sir.” 

“I’ve lived a longer life than yours, though I have no doubt you’ve seen much.” Age can’t possibly be the sole factor. He’s met a lot of people his age or older, but none of them anything like him. “Experience taught me it isn’t worth living without taking a few chances, and I knew as soon as I saw you that you were a risk worth taking.” 

Shay hopes with all of his being that the feeble lighting the candles provide hides the blush he knows is reddening his face. What the colonel just said, like it was nothing, feels more like a declaration of intent than an explanation. That’s probably a sign; he should leave. This sort of clandestine meeting in the dead of night doesn’t suit a man like the colonel. It’s too reminiscent of other such meetings, with nameless women and men. Nothing he should sully a man he respects with. “Then I’ll do everything in my power to prove you right. I shouldn’t keep you from your sleep any longer, sir. Albany will need your full attention.” 

Colonel Monro puts a hand on his shoulder as his eyes find Shay’s. “Are you really in such a hurry to leave?”

Shay hesitates. He can almost hear the missing “me”. He needs to stop this before he does something unforgivable. “You should know better than anyone that duty always calls. If I’m not needed now, I’ll soon be, and so will you.” 

“The Morrigan won’t sail far tonight. Gist can keep her safe for a little longer, even for the rest of the night should it be necessary.” 

Shay won’t allow his delusions to ruin everything. “Sir, please stop. I need to leave.”

“Why? I believe you wish to stay, but won’t, for reasons only you know. Just because we believe in order in all things doesn’t mean we are creatures without desires. I can tell you I am not.”

Shay can’t be imagining this, no matter how unbelievable it is. He isn’t a stranger to this. He can’t ignore the dim light in the small room and the quiet of the night conspiring to make them appear alone in the world, the colonel’s darkening eyes on his, or his own reaction to it all. He wants, and so does the colonel. But from there he finds himself fumbling, unsure of what his first move should be. Should he admit his attraction out loud, try to find the words without sounding like an idiot, or should he just go for the colonel, maybe just kissing would be-

“Sometimes, the best course of action is to let someone else decide. Don’t let this burden you. I shall take care of this.”

Following the colonel’s lead has never gone against Shay’s favor. He’s always done so without second thoughts and never regretted it. Really, he should know he doesn’t need permission from him for this. “Yes.” It’s enough for them both. 

Shay can’t help but tremble under the kiss the colonel, George, bestows upon him. So unlike his anonymous conquests of the past, this feels like a gift, a caress from someone beloved. Something to treasure. And it doesn’t end. George keeps on kissing him like they’ve got all the time in the world, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. 

He only discovers his hands have fisted in the back of George’s coat when the colonel breaks the kiss and tells him to release him if he wants his clothes removed. He blushes, feeling young and wrong-footed, having to be managed like this, but the colonel just smiles and kisses him again, melting all tension like fresh snow in spring, and guides him to the bed while removing their clothes. 

The colonel’s fingers find their way around the buckles of his coat and the buttons of his shirt like they’re exploring new territory, until they find his flesh underneath. 

Having a new lover should be about discovering each others’ body, but Shay is the one who is finding out about himself. Shay had no idea his nipples were this sensitive, but he’s overtaken by shivers every time the colonel’s lips caress them, which he does often. His mouth and hands travel all over his body, from his nape to his chest, then his sides, then going down a leg only to travel back up to kiss the inside of his elbow, leaving Shay in pieces, unable to do a thing but shiver and moan, but not too loud, they mustn’t be heard. 

It is only when Shay breaks and begs for more, so hard he’s hurting, that George praises him for his patience, thanks him for allowing him this, like Shay was the one who was being generous, and that his lips find their way to his cock, tracing the length of it before spreading and taking him inside. This won’t take long, not with Shay having already been so close to the edge. He bites his lips to hold back the moans as the suction increases. He wants to warn him, but he can’t find the words, and the gentle tap to tell him to pull out is ignored. He comes down his throat, his orgasm wrecking him, leaving him limp and powerless on the bed, but he doesn’t mind. There is no one he trust more with his helpless body than the colonel George Monro. 

He could laugh while George’s fingers dance on his inner thighs as he asks if he can take him. “Anything you want” is the only answer he can give. 

George starts on the road to bring him back into hardness again. Shay doesn’t know where the lotion coating his digits comes from, and he couldn’t care less. All that matters is the slow, gentle push of them as they enter him. 

He knows he’s been prepared with diligence, but he isn’t quite conscious of it. His mind is still clouded by his last orgasm. He just lets pleasure rise once more under the colonel’s, insistent but never demanding, touch and his mouth against his, until he’s straining again. 

When he finally pushes in, slowly, slowly, it lights up all his nerves, makes his spine curl and sweat break out all over him. His fingers curl inward and the only reason he’s not pleading for more, faster, harder, is that he’s too busy trading languid kisses with the colonel. Pushing back against him has his hips taken in a firm hold, until there is nothing he can do but take each thrust as it is given to him, until he calms down and let himself just feel, being shaken to the core each time he rocks in. 

His second orgasm, almost stolen from him by George’s relentless, steady rhythm, is less devastating, the heat that overtakes him leaving behind warmth in his whole body, fanned by George’s come spilling inside him a few minutes later. George himself never loses control, even when shaken by his own pleasure. He pulls out of him gently, mindful of not hurting him, and inquires about possible hurts, which is ridiculous considering what he deals with everyday. 

Shay knows he should leave. No matter what the colonel said, the Morrigan always needs her captain. He doesn’t want to, but he should. 

“Didn’t I say your ship won’t miss you for a night? Stay.” 

Please, let no one ever find out that all it takes is a word for the colonel for him to abandon all reason, or that he’s an open book to him. “If you insist.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Shay lies back on the bed. The next morning will make itself known soon enough, he might as well stay until then. He’s quickly taken into an embrace. Sleep comes to him easily.


	17. Liam/Shay, one-sided attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12248174#cmt12248174): Liam learns that his childhood friend, former Assassin brother and lover - has survived. He tries to search for Shay, only to be horrified that his ex has not only allied himself with the Templars, but is now in a romantic relationship with one of them...
> 
> Optional objectives:
> 
> \+ Jealous!Liam lusting over the no-longer scruffy looking Shay  
> \+ Jealous!Liam desires to capture rather than kill Shay and keep him locked up. Whether or not he does this, or grudgingly accepting that Shay has chosen his own path - is up to writer-anon  
> \+ Shay's new beau... would prefer either George Monroe or Haytham
> 
> Writer's notes: Set in the same world as the Shay/Monro fic, but be prepared for genre whiplash. Also, there's an alternate hatesex ending which you can read at the meme, but it's not that good, sorry.

There’s a tombstone deep in the woods surrounding the Davenport Homestead. Liam had it made during a mission in England, so that Achilles and the others wouldn’t hear about it. Shay is anathema now, a disgrace he’s forbidden to mention, a traitor only spoken of with barely muted tones of anger. He’d chosen death over them. His end wasn’t honored by the Brotherhood, nor should it have been. 

Despite how wrong Shay had been, how he’d dared defy Achilles’ authority, Liam doesn’t think Shay deserved his fate. He could have been reasoned with, he knows he could have convinced him, if only he’d had the chance. 

But he didn’t, and so he’s here, bringing flowers for an empty grave. Shay’s body isn’t buried there. They’d never find it, nor did they really look for it. There was a cursory search to make sure he hadn’t survived the fall, but they all saw his body sink in the sea, along with the Manuscript.

It is peaceful here. They used to meet in those woods before, when the overbearing presences of all the other assassins became too much for them to bare. It would never replace the backstreets of New York where they spent their childhood, but he has good memories of the place, and he thinks Shay would rather remain here than at the Homestead with his murderers. 

He'd rather stay, replaying in his head all those times where they were happy here, but he's expected. The Morrigan is to be sold, and as the person who now knows her best, he’s been chosen to supervise the transaction. The Brotherhood judged they didn't need her. Liam almost objected, because he loves her and it was the theater of some of his favorite memories. He did not. Achilles' judgment is final and being her captain would have been a constant torment, him standing where Shay should be.

The Morrigan had raised Liam's hopes, all those years ago. Him as Shay's right hand, not watching over him for once, but both of them at the head of their crew. Often separated for months from other Assassins, but together. He'd dreamed that would be enough, that one day, as they would let the night crew take over, Shay would invite him over to his cabin for a late night drink. The alcohol flowing through their veins would loosen their tongues and give them the courage to pursue what Liam had always felt thrumming between them.

That never happened. Liam always found himself alone in his own cabin, staring at the ceiling, wondering if telling Shay about what haunted his thoughts would be worth jeopardising his relationship with his oldest and truest friend.

Now he'll never get to.

____________

The Assassins are holding a wake for Le Chasseur, but Liam can’t be a part of it. Le Chasseur deserves his respect, but he’s shocked to the core by the report they just received and wouldn’t be proper company, especially during a funeral. 

Shay, still alive, but now siding with Templars of all people, working side by side with Colonel George Monro. The news leaves him split, euphoria at Shay being still alive obscured by his continued betrayal. Not only did he leave them, he joined the Templars and is actively opposing them, going so far as to kill one of their own, one of Shay’s friend. How could he possibly be this disturbed, this misguided? He can’t reconcile this Shay, the Templar who killed Le Chasseur, with his Shay, the kid from New York, his colleague, his best friend, the one he was going to create a better world with. Where did it go so wrong? 

For now, he’s alive, and that’s all that should matter. He can be reformed. He’ll be punished harshly, maybe for a very long time, but he can be restored, Liam is sure of it. The Shay he knew can’t have died in Lisbon with those unfortunates. Liam will make him see reason, no matter what.

____________

Liam is expecting her, the nervous woman, barely an assassin yet, who managed to infiltrate the staff of Colonel George Monro. She has been his main source of information on the man, his target. If he wants his assassination to go flawlessly, he needs the intelligence she can provide.

Something must have gone wrong. She's not only nervous, like she usually his, she's downright terrified. But of what? 

It’s getting to him. "What it is? Does he have unexpected reinforcements? Is he not going to Albany anymore? Tell me!"

Colors drain from her face. "It's not that, Brother, it's just..." She stops, takes a deep breath, starts again and stutters. Liam is getting annoyed. "The colonel is still on his way to Albany. Left this very morning, he did. But... he didn't leave his room alone. The traitor was with him. Arrived in his quarters late last night but only came out this morning. That's all, sir." And she leaves. It would be more adequate to say she runs away. 

He stares at the empty space she used to fill for a few moments, wondering what he did to cause such a departure, before he comprehends what she described. She can’t possibly be implying what he just thought about. Shay wouldn’t…

For all he knows, he might. It could be but another manifestation of the changes in Shay, him becoming someone he barely recognises. He’d never thought gender would be an obstacle between them, after all. He hasn’t been sure, Shay had been very private about his occasional affairs, but he thought he wasn’t wrong about how Shay’s eyes would sometime linger on members of their crew or a passing merchant. 

But _him_. A prominent figure of the Templars, a man more than twice Shay’s age, his next target. Why him? Even if it’s nothing serious, even if he’s only a night’s amusement, taking a Templar to bed is an unforgivable affront.

Assassins aren’t supposed to take pleasure in the kill, but Liam will make an exception for Monro. He’ll pay for having defiled Shay. 

____________

His first look at Shay after all this time, and it is of him curled over another man, a dead one, heartbreak obvious on his face and in his voice. He knew they had to be close, he knew, but he didn’t want to believe, not to see everything he ever wanted reflected in Shay’s face but for someone else, their enemy, an enemy of all of humanity that Shay is blind to. Shay didn’t even try to look for him, not the mad dash for revenge Liam had half expected, despite the fact that he’s watching over this from a rooftop only a few feet away. He’s too destroyed by his naked grief to be preoccupied by the loss of the Manuscript. Now that he has it, Liam can’t believe this is what tore them apart, those seemingly harmless pieces of paper. 

The temptation to rip Shay away from the corpse now is almost overwhelming, but there are too many enemies around for him to succeed. Either way, Shay end up leaving, but not without taking the colonel’s ring with him, his Templar ring. Even as his body cools, he manages to torment Liam, leaving his beloved with a reminder of him and his new allegiance. The next time he meets Shay, he’ll take that ring from him, along with every mark the Templars have branded him with, and destroy them, until only his Shay is left. His Shay, who is still so attractive, maybe more so, older and different in ways he isn’t familiar with but wants to be. 

Now isn’t the time for this. It might never be the time. Liam leaves him to his new allies, for now. 

____________

Fate keeps them apart. Liam wants to go after Shay, catch him, make him see reason, but he keeps fighting them, killing all their friends, like he wants to prove to the world he is irredeemable. They, the Assassins, or what’s left of them by now, have to mend what he broke, leaving a bloody trail behind them. Liam can’t afford to follow his whims right now.

It’s Hope’s body, left lying in the middle of the streets, that finally makes Liam stop fooling himself. If he can kill even her without a second thought, the woman he always feared would take Shay away from him, then there is nothing left. Putting him down would be doing him a mercy.

____________

Shay’s first words to them in years, and they’re fighting words, accusing Achilles. He didn’t learn anything in all those years. Then he’s accusing him, like he could have shot Shay in the back the day of his betrayal, when Liam still thought of him as his closest friend. 

It isn’t like that now. Liam won’t show weakness in front of Achilles and Templars, especially the leader of their damned branch. 

He doesn’t expect Achilles to try and stop him. Everything becomes chaos around them, so Liam does what he does in those situations and goes for Shay. His shots keep missing, and while some of it can be attributed to Shay’s improved skills, a lot of it is his own lack of resolution. As much as he knows Shay should pay for his crimes, that he’s a lost cause, he doesn’t want to be the cause of his death. 

Shay catches up to him, giving him a wound Liam knows will be fatal, and that takes care of that. Dying by Shay’s hand isn’t what he wanted, but it’s a better alternative than most. 

Somehow, he didn’t expect Shay’s cold anger, like he has a right to it, like he was the one betrayed by those he loved. Telling him as much causes Shay to laugh, an ugly, bitter sound Liam has never heard coming out of Shay’s lips. Surely it’s a sign of how wrong everything became. “You killed him” is Shay’s answer. Liam knows who Shay is referring to, and vicious jealousy of a man already dead by his own hand is the last thing he feels before death welcomes him.


	18. Random misfire fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The six fills focus on the following characters:  
> 1) Desmond, Rebecca, Shaun, Lucy  
> 2) Malik, Kadar, Altaïr  
> 3) Haytham and Shay  
> 4) Desmond and Altaïr  
> 5) Ezio, Leonardo and Federico  
> 6) Desmond, Rebecca and Shaun

_1)[Misfire](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12053614#cmt12053614): SECONDED! Seriously, this would be awesome. Maybe I'll fill it..._

“You know what would be great?”

Desmond tears his eyes from the scene in front of him and looks at Rebecca. “What?”

“Instead of just looking at Shaun giving it to Lucy, you could join in. They’d love it. They used to pick up people from clubs when they could, but lately, you know, it’s pretty much impossible, what’s with the Templars and all.”

Desmond keeps staring. “Are you crazy? I can’t just barge in while they’re fucking! They’d kill me!" He glares at her. "If you’re so sure, why don’t you go?”

“Who told you I never did?” Rebecca rolls her eyes at Desmond’s increasingly glazed look. “It’s not really my thing. We have an arrangement: I prefer looking. You might not have noticed, but the door to their room is wide open. They’re not exactly shy. They’d love it if you joined them. Shaun always is extra rude to people he finds hot. My guess is he’s got it for you bad.” A glance downward confirms it: Desmond’s into it. Maybe he needs just a little more… persuasion. She rubs her hand against his rapidly growing erection. “Plus, listen to how loud Lucy is. Shaun’s probably not that good. She’s calling for you. I bet she’s love to suck your cock while Shaun’s fucking her. Her mouth probably feels empty.” A last squeeze and she pushes herself off him. She whispers into his ear: “So, what do you think?”

“SECONDED! Seriously, this would be awesome. Maybe I'll fill it...”

Rebecca grins. “That’s the spirit! Go get ‘em, cowboy!” She pushes him hard toward the open door before he can change his mind.

Ah! She was so right. He’s already getting a pretty friendly welcome from both of them.

Her own hand slips into her panties. Cheers for her. The nights won’t be boring anymore now that she’ll have something new to watch. 

________________

_2)[Misfire](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12175470#cmt12175470): OP will make sure to keep breathing ~~or big brother will make her XD~~ but that won't stop her from being very happy!_

Malik doesn’t know what he did to deserve such a fate. “Stop laughing.”

Kadar stops, but only long enough for him to answer: “but brother! It’s the third one!” His frame is shaken by tremors once more when the novice tries to act as if nothing happened and starts for him, only to falter and run away from the force of Malik’s protective glare.

It was indeed the third foolish novice to walk into a wall today, having been distracted by Kadar’s new… abundant charms. Malik mourns for the next generation of Assassins, which appears to be doomed to failure if the sight of a woman is all that it takes for them to be driven to complete idiocy. Of course, Kadar became the most beautiful woman in the world, and anyone who disagrees shall face retribution, but ~~he~~ she is still his sister, and the man worthy of her affections doesn’t exist as far as Malik is concerned.

Kadar is wheezing now, as what should have been but a casual greeting causes _his teacher_ , damn it, the man should know better, to stop and stare, unable to remove his eyes from ~~his~~ ~~her~~ his shaking bosom. Malik will happily remove them for him if he doesn’t stop.

At least Kadar is amused by all this. Malik himself wouldn’t have taken waking up as a woman quite as well, never mind _this much_ woman.

Malik rubs Kadar’s back gently as he collapses against him while another passing novice stops dead in his track, captivated by Kadar’s figure. “Just… keep breathing.” Without uttering a word, Malik lets the novice know that lingering around Kadar might be the last thing he does if he stays any longer. The novice blanches and makes himself scarce. Weakling.

Even distracted by watching in satisfaction at his latest victory, it shouldn’t be possible for someone to approach them without his knowledge, and yet there is someone holding up Kadar’s chin to look at his, her, face. “It appears the rumors were true, as unbelievable as they were. You do make a stunning woman.”

Oh no. Not him.

Kadar freezes and stops laughing, before a blush appears on her now rounded cheeks, making her even more adorable. Malik has found his new target. Altaïr shall die.

Altaïr’s hand caresses Kadar’s now flaming face, both of them appearing to have forgotten Malik’s presence, or in Altaïr’s case, ignoring him, as their gazes lock. That won’t do.

Malik’s attempt at knifing Altaïr is sadly thwarted by his victim, but at least he isn’t touching Kadar anymore.

Altaïr smiles as he blocks and restrains Malik by pushing him against the wall, restricting his movement, before releasing him a few moments later, but not before he whispers, too softly for anyone but Malik to hear, “Really, Malik, there’s no need to be so jealous. We could all share. Think about it.”

What. Malik can only stare, bewildered, as Altaïr leaves them both, Kadar’s curious stare asking questions he has no answer for. 

________________

_3)[Misfire](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12331886#cmt12331886): Thank you so much for writing this! I love your characterization of Liam and his feelings for Shay, and the jealousy and grief that it's too late to salvage the relationship they had._

When entering his cabin, Haytham sitting on his chair reading a book wouldn’t be an unwelcome sight. The problem comes from what he’s reading: his journal.

Haytham lifts his eyes from the text and closes the book lazily. The noise made by pages hitting each other shouldn’t be so loud, yet it seems to echo through the small room. So does Haytham’s voice: “Thank you so much for writing this. I love your characterisation.”

Shay can’t believe he just- no, he can. Haytham would. Still. “You… What gave you the right!”

“You’re at fault for letting what you wanted kept secret lying around for anyone to see. Especially when some might use it to question your loyalty. So much sentiment, so many emotions for the murderer of our allies. Tell me, do you think you could change him, that he could be swayed?”

Shay does hate this ability of Haytham to always know where to hit to make it hurt. “Of course not. There’s nothing to salvage. He is our enemy.”

The silence stretches as Haytham stares at him before answering. “Good of you to acknowledge it. Might I remind you that you left the Assassins behind, along all those involved. This endless rehashing of what could have been serves no one, least of all the Order.”

There’s something in his tone… “You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you?”

“We all left people behind in our quest for order. We have to trust it’s worth it, or we’ll be finished.” Steel both in his voice and on his face. Haytham has deemed the subject closed. At least his deflection worked.

Haytham throws the book at him. “Be more careful next time.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

________________

_4)[Misfire](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12409198#cmt12409198): I need this so bad_

This is horrible. “C’mon, give it to me.”

“No”

Desmond has terrible tastes in sex partners. “Cooome on.”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re a terrible boyfriend, why do I even like you.”

Desmond can tell that if he was less the stoic type, Altaïr would pull the sheets over his head in protest. “I have work early tomorrow, I don’t have time to humor you.”

He knows that, but he’s been on edge all day, if he doesn’t get fucked _now_ he’ll go crazy. “Seriously, who the hell has to beg their boyfriend to fuck them? What is your problem? Let’s just have a quickie and be done with it, I’m not asking for dinner and candles and hours of foreplay. Just do me.”

Altaïr is staring at him like he doesn’t have the patience to deal with his shit. Too bad for him. He’s the one that asked him out, the one that first talked about getting serious, the one that picked their place. He’s the one that needs to meet his fucking needs, pun totally intended. “Do it now or I’m walking out, I swear. I need this so bad.”

Altaïr sighs, pushes back the sheets and before Desmond knows it, he’s flat on his back with Altaïr on top of him, pulling off the shirt Desmond didn’t have time to remove and throwing it on the corner of the room. It hits the floor soundlessly. Even if it had broken the bedside lamp, Desmond wouldn’t have noticed, not with Altaïr kissing the breath out of him, his hands grabbing at his boxer until there’s nothing keeping him from giving Desmond what he begged for.

When he finally separates their lips, he has two lubed fingers inside Desmond, pushing in _hard_ and _fast_. “You don’t get to complain that you’re sore next morning.”

Fuck yeah. Like he would, and he’d say so if he could actually get a few sounds out other than moans and gasps and grunts as his hands scramble on Altaïr’s waist, his back, his shoulders. Altaïr grins. Looks like he got it. This is gonna be fun.

________________

_5)[Misfire](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12508782#cmt12508782): Nonsense! I loved the comforting and warring feelings! You're awesome, don't worry about it being late, paper's are a bitch! I can't wait for the next one!_

Ezio just wanted to hit his head on the table until no one could possibly expect him to be able to write anything. "This is terrible."

Leonardo pats his shoulder gently. "No it's not, my friend. I enjoyed it."

Leonardo is just being kind, Ezio knows it. "Yes it it! Why did you let me take creative writing? I am an idiot. The whole story makes no sense! There are plot holes bigger than Cesare's ego! This character makes Lucrezia look demure and rational! The main characters are lovey-dovey in a scene and tearing each others to shreds the other! I'll be the laughingstock of the whole class."

"Nonsense! I loved the comforting and warring feelings! Your characters have a lot of depths, you just needs a discerning eye to appreciate them."

""Hey, Ezio, done with that story or are you still in that panicking stage?"

Ezio turns his head in horror. "Leonardo, please get Federico away from me. I cannot deal with him right now, not with so much work to do to fix this into a even slightly coherent mess."

"You're still working on it? Well, don't worry about it being late, papers are a bitch. I'm sure Professor Machiavelli will be forgiving."

"....Leonardo, what time is it?"

""Two o'clock, why?"

"I have to hand it over by three! I'm doomed, friend, doomed!"

"Don't worry about it, Ezio, Claudia aced that class. We already have a talented writer in the family, you can just inherit the bank."

The stuff nightmare are made of. "I have to pass this class no matter what. Everyone, stop talking to me, I must concentrate!" He pushes them out in the hallway. They are bad for his creative process.

 

"Does he know he has another one due Friday?"

"...I admit I didn't have the strength to remind him of it just yet."

"I can't wait for that next one!"

________________

_6)[Misfire](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12537198#cmt12537198): Loved it! AssCrack is the best! Write all the random wonderful ideas, pretty please with pink bunnies on top._

Life with the Assassins is sometimes too crazy for Desmond. “You cannot possibly believe that.”

“Why not? Why couldn’t the Templars be responsible for chemtrails? They were behind John F. Kennedy’s assassination! They hide the existence of aliens from the population!”

Desmond shrugs. “So do we.”

“You’re missing the point, Desmond! Poisoning everyone to control them is standard Templar M.O.!”

Desmond can deal with wars between hidden factions that control the world lasting for millennia. He cannot deal with this Hollow Earth shit. “Next you’ll tell me they’re behind water fluoridation.”

“Well, duh.”

Desmond tries to turn toward a bastion of sanity. “Shaun, help me out man. Rebecca’s crazy.”

Shaun sighs. “Rebecca, trying to explain something to Desmond is always wasted time. Why bother trying? Desmond, you’re the addled one. Why is your tiny skull unable to understand the truth with so many proofs right in front of you?”

“What proof? You have no proof!” This is the only time in recent history he’s wanted his dad around. To think he’s looking for his dad for someone to make sense.

“Of course, Templars control the whole world and you’ve been fighting them for some time, but that wouldn’t be enough for you, now would it? Shall I present the water and air analysis our experts did? It was tough, the Templars aren’t stupid enough to use easily detected chemicals, but we got the best.”

Oh no. “You have those. You really have those. You’re not kidding.”

Both Rebecca and Shaun are smirking at him, damn them. “Told you.”

Why did he ever think common sense could apply anywhere on this world. “Let me guess, some other conspiracies are true. Is the Earth flat? Are Reptilians real!? Give it all to me. In fact, make it a list. Write all the random wonderful ideas, pretty please with pink bunnies on top. I need to know.”

Rebecca turns her attention to her computer for one second. The next, Desmond does have a list. It’s numbered with the current status of the theory: disproved, in study, proved, holy shit this one’s real let’s dispatch a team to take care of it now. “How did you even find the Nazi’s secret Antarctic base?”

“By being bleeding cold, that’s how we did. Oh, we also did a lot of old-fashioned research and some infiltration, but it was mostly cold. Worse, we didn’t find anything of worth in it.”

Desmond keeps reading. “Why is there a team looking for the Yeti as we speak?”

“It might be a member of another alien civilization, a Precursor having assumed a different type of corporal form, or a drunk man in a suit. How should we know? We have to know if it’s important to find out if we need to keep it out of Templars’ hands.”

“Shaun, you’re an historian, you can’t enjoy wasting your time on this type of crazy crack.”

“I love it! Crack is the best. There’s nothing quite as fun as seriously considering whether Ted Cruz is the Zodiac Killer. It can actually be quite close to regular historical research. It’s fun.”

“…Okay, I’m going to let you work at it then. I want nothing to do with that, so I’m going to bed.” Desmond is risking his life with crazy conspiracy theorists. Why.

“Don’t let the Shadow People bite!”

“I hate you.”


	19. Random not misfire fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things I haven't posted yet because they're too short, but at the same time I posted everything else, so.
> 
> I'm also behind the [badfic](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12069998#cmt12069998), but I refuse to post the whole thing here.

_[Prompt](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12250478#cmt12250478): Someone is fucking Shay roughly and gripping that little ponytail of his for leverage. Could be anyone you want - Haytham, Liam, Monro, etc. _

  


Shay almost lets Liam’s cock slip from his mouth when his hands, a few seconds ago still clawing at the air in an effort not to force him deeper, tangle into his hair and pull, roughly. He tries to glare at him, but Liam has known him for too long to be fooled. The second time he tugs, it’s deliberate, and he must feels Shay’s inaudible moan around him because he does again, and again, until he spills inside, leaving Shay with an unexpected erection that he won’t mind taking care of.

It’s not long before it becomes a common part of their time together: Shay on all four, Liam grabbing his pony tail as he fucks him, compelling screams out of his exposed throat.

  


It took a lot out of him to ask for what he wanted. Such acts had seemed contrary to the colonel’s temperament, but George had always accepted him without reservation. He hadn’t disappointed this time either. He’d been somewhat hesitant at first, but once it had been clear Shay could take whatever he decided to give, he’d been eager to gift him everything.

So Shay learns to enjoy having the colonel’s fingers massaging his scalp and playing with his hair before they curl around the strands and yank, hard, while George kisses his stretched out neck and find his way between his thighs.

  


If Shay struggles against the bonds Haytham has trapped him in, it’s not because he can’t control himself enough to obey him. It’s because he craves the strong pull he’ll deal as “punishment”. Haytham is deliberately rough with him because he can read Shay like a book. He knows his limits and isn’t afraid to challenge them when it suits him, when it’s what he needs to do to get Shay where and when he wants him.

He only prepares him as little as he can to take him without causing damage. When he pushes in, it’s always overwhelming, the pressure wiping out everything else, leaving his mind blank, freeing him. Shay isn’t afraid to leave him this much control. Haytham takes care of his own.

His grasp on his pony tail stays firm. No matter how much Shay fights against it, how he tries to shake his head when the way Haytham feels is almost too much for him to bear, he doesn’t let go until he’s done, leaving a few ripped off hairs fall on the pillow as he inquires about his well-being. 

  


______________________________

  


_[Prompt](https://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12530030#cmt12530030): Dear dairy..._

  


Dear Dairy,

Thank you so much for spilling all over Shaun last night. Who knew there was such a hot bod under that shirt? Not I, at least until he had to remove it. And that’s not even mentioning how he looked with you all over his face. You did a really great job, feel free to do that again whenever you feel like it.

Love, Desmond.


	20. Charles/Haytham, sharing a bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12516462#cmt12516462): so while replaying AC3 i've noticed in the cutscenes that it looks like they (lee and haytham) always come out of the same room, and when i checked said room there was only one bed. so let me get into the point
> 
> have them share the same bed, idc if it's fluff or smut or they are just homoflexible about sleeping on the same bed i just want charles and haytham being sweet to each other
> 
> i'm not picky do whatever you want as long as they share the same room in the green dragon tavern pls

His first reaction when he takes in the room arrangement is confusion. The Order amply has the means to afford separate rooms, or at least one with two beds if Master Kenway wants him near. Charles expects him to go right to the owner and have the obvious mistake straightened out. 

Instead, Master Kenway doesn’t miss a beat and starts settling down. There is nothing else to do for Charles than to imitate him silently. 

Later, as they all share a drink after a meeting with the others and he notices the glint of mischief in Master Kenway’s eyes when he mocks his comrades, he thinks he might be just have been the victim of a prank. Things might just be that simple. Just some light hazing of the young, new recruit. Master Kenway does seem to have a sense of humor and might just have wanted to see his reaction. He spends a minute lamenting the fact that he betrayed his expectations before scolding himself back to his senses. It doesn’t matter why he did it. 

Even if Charles thinks he knows what happened, the time to retire for the night still comes too quickly for his tastes. He had hoped that the alcohol would soothe his nerves and allow him to go to bed without making a fool of himself, but alas. He hasn’t managed to prepare himself for sharing a bed with Master Kenway. He has no idea how he’ll manage to fall asleep with him lying by his side. What if he moves in his sleep and he encroaches in Master Kenway’s space? What if they touch!? 

He lets Master Kenway pick a side and gingerly takes the other one. He probably looks as awkward as he feels, because his bedmate… damn… snorts and says “I’m not going to eat you, you know.” 

Charles falters. “I never though you would! I mean, I know you don’t, of course you wouldn’t, it’s not like-”

“Charles, take a deep breath. What are you going to do if you ever meet an Assassin if this is all it takes to stop you?” 

Well, if Master Kenway wanted to see him flustered, he got what he wanted. At least, he looks beautiful when he’s amused. 

He always looks beautiful. 

Not the time. Not. the. time. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better next time.”

He’s still smiling. “See that you do, whatever that means.”

So Charles lies back down and resolves to ignore the person lying so close, so close to him. It seems an impossible task, how could somehow ignore a man like Haytham Kenway, but the alcohol and the fatigue finally make themselves known and he falls into a deep, sleepless dream.

Or, if he dreamt, he has no memory of it. That’s what he answers Haytham when he asks, at least. 

_______________________

The situation doesn’t change. Master Kenway doesn’t have him move. He never brings it up, and if the others find the arrangement strange, they never say a word about it. 

Charles doesn’t really know how he himself feels about it. Sometimes he feels blessed to have him so near, always at his side, to be so completely accepted by him, maybe even wanted. Master Kenway wouldn’t share his bed with him if he didn’t enjoy his company, would he? Of course he wouldn’t. He’s not a man to endure silently. It’s quite gratifying. 

It’s also a constant test of his resolve. Master Kenway isn’t only a great man, he’s also blindingly attractive at all times, be it when he wakes up, disheveled in the morning light, or during the day, always so put together and proper. It’s easy to observe his sleeping face or steal a look at him when he’s changing when they’re always sharing a room. He’s always tempted. Who wouldn’t be? But he would never dare touch. He can’t jeopardise everything for the sake of his own selfish desires. 

In the end, he can’t say that he dislikes their current status quo, but he knows it isn’t tenable at long term. Something will have to give, and by something he means himself. 

So he decides to raise the subject with Master Kenway. The idea of breaking the companionable silence about it is a little intimidating, but he can’t keep sleeping with, well, someone he would love to sleep with. 

“Master Kenway, I’m thinking of getting another room. Would that be fine?”

Is that… He doesn’t know what just passed over Master Kenway’s face. “Tired of me already, are you?”

Nothing could be falser. “Of course not, but surely you can see that this continued cohabitation isn’t proper.” 

“Improper, eh. I didn’t think you would be the type to worry about such things.”

Charles thinks he’s being scolded for caring about what other people might think, maybe. Quite frankly, he doesn’t care at all about the clientele of the Green Dragon. It was just a figure of speech. “Wouldn’t you prefer having privacy?”

Master Kenway shrugs. “If that was the case, I wouldn’t have chosen that arrangement.” 

So he really was the one responsible. “Why did you?”

“Why not? I just arrived here, knew no one, and you seemed eager enough.”

He’s blushing. How pathetic that his admiration was that ridiculously obvious. “Oh.”

Haytham grabs Charles’ chin, catches his eyes and keeps them trapped there. “It also seems to me that you didn’t mind so much sharing that bed. Maybe your reason for wanting to move has nothing to do with privacy, but is of another nature?” 

He’s going to burst. He’s not equipped to handle that sort of close proximity coupled with that suggestive tone. “I, um, didn’t mind, but surely, you-”

Haytham is rapidly closing the space between them, and Charles thinks that he’s going to get kissed, oh dear, but he stops, so close that Charles can feel his breath against his mouth. “Can I?”

Charles smiles, how could he not. He’s charmed by the attention. There is no world in which he would say no. “Please, go on.”

Haytham wipes the smile off with his own lips. 

_______________________

Charles doesn’t end up getting his own room. Instead, he spends his nights unafraid of bumping into his lover, too close for the worry to have any meaning, and when he wakes up in the morning he’s not limited to staring at Haytham’s sleeping face, he can just kiss him awake.


End file.
